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COLLEGE  COMPOSITION 


By  CHARLES  SEARS  BALDWIN 


Essays  Out  of  Hours.    Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  Gilt  Top. 

American  Short  Stories.  Selected  and  Edited  with 
an  Introductory  Essay  on  the  Short  Story. 
Crown  8vo. 

An  Introduction  to  English  Medieval  Literature. 
Crown  8vo. 

Writing  and  Speaking.    A  Text-Book  of  Rhetoric 
for  High  Schools. 
(May  be  had  also  in  two  Parts:  sold  separately) 

Composition:  Oral  and  Written.  A  Text-Book  for 
more  advanced  students.  Adapted  in  large 
part  from  "  Writing  and  Speaking." 

College  Composition. 

De  Quincey*s  Joan  of  Arc  and  the  English  Mail 
Coach.  Edited  with  Introduction  and  Notes. 
(Longmans'  English  Classics.) 

Bunyan's  The  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Edited  with 
Introduction  and  Notes.  (Longmans'  Eng- 
lish Classics.) 


NEW  YORK:  LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  CO. 


COLLEGE  COMPOSITION 


BY 


CHARLES  SEARS  BALDWIN,  A.M.,  Ph.D. 

PROFESSOR  OF  RHETORIC  ik  COLUMBIA   UNIVERSITY 


NEW   IMPRESSION 


LONGMANS,    GREEN   AND    CO. 

55     FIFTH     AVENUE,     NEW     YORK 

PRAIRIE   AVENUE   AND   25TH   STREET,    CHICAGO 
LONDON,   BOMBAY,    CALCUTTA  AND  MADRAS 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,     I917 
BY    LONGMANS,    GREEN    AND    CO. 


First  Edition,  October,  1917 

Reprinted,  September,  1919 

"November,  1920 

October,  1922 


Q.|^    o| 


Lewi&     Oea^ev 


MADE  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 


PREFACE 

A  College  Manual  0}  Rhetoric  ventured  fifteen  years  ago 
to  offer  a  course  of  writing  and  speaking  larger  in  scope 
than  the  work  of  secondary  schools  and  definitely  related 
to  other  college  studies.  The  experiment  has  been  amply 
justified.  Courses  of  composition  collegiate  in  degree  and 
character,  commensurate  with  other  college  courses,  and 
constantly  serving  these,  are  now  generally  recognized,  and 
their  various  methods  have  been  amply  tested.  The 
present  book,  though  proceeding  from  the  Manual  of  1902, 
endeavors  to  focus  this  intervening  experience  in  a  text- 
book so  different  in  proportions  as  to  suggest  the  more 
comprehensive  title  College  Composition, 

The  aim  of  this  new  book  being  to  teach,  not  teachers, 
but  students,  its  division  is  not  analytical  into  the  elements 
of  composition,  but  constructive  into  the  processes  of  com- 
position as  they  expand  consecutively.  College  writing 
differs  from  school  writing  less  in  kind  than  in  degree  and 
scope.  The  distinction  between  exposition  and  argument, 
for  instance,  though  still  significant,  is  less  important  in 
the  earlier  freshman  months  than  the  order  of  assign- 
ments by  which  a  student  improves  both  in  the  processes 
demanded  by  higher  studies.  These  processes  are:  (1)  the 
conve5dng  of  fairly  extensive  information,  (2)  the  con- 
secutive presentation  of  ideas,  and  (3)  persuasion.  Infor- 
mation, discussion,  persuasion — the  three  processes 'overlap 
logically;  but  psychologically  they  are  a  series  of  increasing 
diflSculty  and  interest,  an  advance  in  three  stages.  The 
plan  of  Part  I,  therefore,  is  a  simple  grouping  of  college 

777369 


vi  PREFACE 

problems  in  the  order  of  widening  experience.  Similarly 
progressive  is  the  grouping  of  the  imaginative  processes  in 
Part  II.  The  problems  of  diction  are  discussed  throughout 
incidentally,  as  they  arise,  in  relation  to  the  larger  con- 
siderations of  accuracy,  vividness,  and  movement. 

The  division  into  composition  of  ideas  and  composition 
of  images,  broached  in  the  College  Manual  and  more 
familiar  still  in  French  than  in  English  criticism,  is  essen- 
tially the  same  as  the  classical  division  into  rhetoric  and 
poetic.  Modern  psychology,  no  less  than  ancient  ex- 
perience, shows  it  to  be  fundamental.  Though  full  realiza- 
tion of  either  field  demands  some  mastery  of  the  other  be- 
cause the  two  are  complementary,  each  has  its  own  distinct 
technic;  and  transference  of  the  counsels  of  the  one  in- 
discriminately to  the  other  has  led  to  serious  confusion.  A 
practicable  technic  for  the  imaginative  experience  now 
recognized  as  part  of  even  the  freshman  course  has 
not  been  sufficiently  taught.  Imaginative  composition, 
stimulated  and  guided  in  elementary  education,  often  fades 
through  the  higher  grades,  is  sometimes  deviated  by  un- 
sound esthetic  theory  in  the  high  school,  and  generally 
receives  too  little  specific  instruction  in  college.  Its  educa- 
tional values  for  freshmen  are  evident  both  in  liberating 
expression  and  in  enhancing  appreciation.  Indeed,  for  any 
real  correlation  of  composition  to  literature,  it  is  essential. 
One  distinct  aim  of  this  book,  therefore,  is  to  supply  a 
more  definite  and  progressive  guide  to  imaginative  writing, 
a  practicable  college  poetic. 

The  new  scheme  of  presentation  has  not  thrown  out  such 
useful  terms  as  unity,  emphasis,  coherence,  periodic,  etc., 
with  which  college  students  are  familiar  from  their  studies 
in  school;  but  it  further  simplifies  the  classification,  makes 
the  apparatus  entirely  practical,  and  groups  all  assignments 
in  a  single  appendix.    Thus  simple  in  plan  and  compact  in 


PREFACE  vii 

discussion,  the  book  is  intended  to  promote  and  accompany 
the  writing  and  speaking  of  the  freshman  course  and  to 
open  for  individual  students  suggestions  of  wider  range  in 
later  work. 

Since  I  have  drawn  no  less  from  the  experience  of  many- 
colleagues  than  from  books,  my  indebtedness  is  too 
manifold  to  detail.  I  have  learned  most  practical  lore, 
perhaps,  through  the  keen  experiment  and  cooperation  of 
my  associates  at  Barnard  during  the  last  six  years  in  con- 
ditions of  exceptional  scope  and  significance.  My  old 
friend  Professor  Chauncey  Wetmore  Wells  of  the  University 
of  California  has  extended  in  many  suggestive  letters  and 
in  his  courses  ideas  that  we  started  together  at  Yale,  and 
has  sounded  my  theory  with  most  searching  objection. 
From  him,  from  Professor  Hart  of  Wellesley,  and  from 
Professors  Erskine  and  Briggs  and  Dr.  Haller  of  Columbia, 
I  have  received  the  great  favor  of  proof-reading.  The 
most  penetrative  and  constructive  suggestions  on  the  proof 
came  from  my  former  colleague  Miss  Esther  Everett  Lape, 
whose  view  of  college  courses  has  been  corrected  and 
widened  by  her  exceptional  experience  in  sociology  and 
politics.  My  gratitude  to  these  friends  is  enhanced  by  the 
certitude  that  they  feel  with  me  the  ardor  of  a  common 
quest.  C.  S.  B. 


CONTENTS 

Introduction 


PART  I.   COMPOSITION  OF  IDEAS 

CHAPTER  I.  INFORMATION 

I.  Seeking  Information U 

1.  Facts 11 

2.  Collation 13 

3.  Authority     15 

a.  books  and  periodicals 15 

II.  Gathering  Information 17 

1.  Notes 18 

a.   quotation 19 

h.   paraphrase 19 

c.  citation 20 

d.  classification 21 

(1)  division 22 

(2)  definition      ,  .    .    .    .  24 

III.  Presenting  Information     25 

1.  Consecutive  Plan 26 

2.  Concrete  Development 29 

3.  Current  Forms  of  Presentation 33 

a.  scientific  reports 33 

h.   news  reports 35 

CHAPTER  II.  DISCUSSION 

t    The  Technic  of  Plan  and  Paragraphs 38 

.    1.  Unity 38 

2.   Coherence 39 

a.  planning  by  paragraphs       40 

h.   regulating  each  paragraph  by  a  sentence      ....  42 

c.    adjusting  each  paragraph  to  fit 44 

ix 


X  CONTENTS 

■^  3.  Emphasis 50 

a.  iteration      50 

6.   proportion 52 

c.    amplification      52 

II.  The  Technic  of  Revision  in  Detail 56 

1.  Revision  of  Sentences 56 

a.  unity  and  coherence  in  sentence  form 57 

b.  emphasis  in  sentence  form 59 

(1)  ending  with  the  most  important  word  of  the 
sentence      60 

(2)  ending  with  the  important  word  for  the  para- 
graph   62 

(3)  adjusting  the  length  of  sentences  to  the  para- 
graph    69 

(4)  sentence-forms  generally  emphatic 72 

2.  Revision  of  Words 76 

a.  usage 77 

b.  precision 83 

c.  concreteness 84 

III.  Typical  Forms  of  Essay 86 

1.   The  Two  Kinds  of  Essay 88 

a.  looser  essay,  the  Spectator  type 90 

b.  stricter  essay,  the  Edinburgh  Review  type    ....  91 

CHAPTER  III.  PERSUASION 

I.  The  Technic  of  Argument 95 

1.  The  Finding  of  Arguments 96 

a.  general,  or  a  priori  considerations 96 

b.  evidence,  the  argumentative  use  of  facts 98 

2.  TheAnalysisof  Argument  ("Brief") 100 

a.  statement  and  proof 113 

3.  The  Logical  Processes  of  Argument 116 

a.  deduction 118 

(1)  argument  from  antecedent  probabihty  ....  118 

(2)  syllogism  and  enthymeme 119 

6.  induction 121 

(1)  Mill's  Canons 122 

(2)  working  rules  for  ordinary  induction 125 

(3)  circumstantial  evidence 126 


CONTENTS  xi 

e.   analogy 127 

d.  degrees  of  proof 130 

II.  Oral  Address 133 

1.  Speaking  from  Outline 136 

2.  Debate 140 

a.  the  method  of  debate:  rebuttal 143 

3.  Speeches  on  Occasions 147 

4.  Revision  of  Oral  Address 150 

III.  Forms  of  Written  Argument 155 

PART  II.  COMPOSITION  OF  IMAGES 

CHAPTER  IV.  THE  METHODS  OF  IMAGINA- 
TIVE COMPOSITION  (DESCRIPTION) 

I.  Imagination 161 

1.  Imagination  as  Insight 161 

2.  Imaginative  Expression  as  Concrete 163 

II.  Interpretation 175 

III.   Movement 179 

1.  Avoidance  of  Interruption 179 

2.  Descriptive  Predicates 182 

3.  Rhythm 186 

4.  Interaction 188 

CHAPTER  V.  NARRATIVE  MOVEMENT 

I.  Typical  Narrative  Forms      •   •   •. 193 

1.  Tale ' 194 

2.  Epic  and  Romance 196 

a.  epic      197 

6.   romance      199 

3.  Novel  (Extensive  Reahzation) 201 

4.  Short  Story  (Intensive  Interpretation) 205 

5.  History  and  Biography 210 

II.  The  Technic  of  Narrative  Movement 213 

1.  Writing  by  Scenes 213 

2.  Climax      217 

3.  Complication  and  Solution 218 


ai  CONTENTS 

4.  Weaving  In     220 

a.  limiting  the  time  of  action 222 

h.   dialogue 224 

CHAPTER  VI.  DRAMATIC  MOVEMENT 

I.  Movement  Represented  to  Spectators 228 

II.  Movement  Represented  by  Action 233 

III.  Movement  Represented  by  Interaction 234 

IV.  Movement  by  Scenes 237 

1.  Clearness  of  Dramatic  Movement 239 

2.  Constancy  of  Dramatic  Movement 241 

a.  dramatic  opening 241 

6.    "dramatic  unities"       244 

3.  Fulness  of  Dramatic  Close 247 

V.  Dramatic  Diction 249 


Appendix  A    Assignments 259 

Appendix  B    The  Preparation  of  Manuscript  ......     279 

Index 293 


COLLEGE   COMPOSITION^ 

INTRODUCTION 

The  study  of  writing  and  speaking  is  not  primarily  a 
study  of  words.  That  it  is  to  some  extent  a  study  of  words 
is  obvious;  but  that  this  is  all  is  an  idea  of  the  half -edu- 
cated. Finding  their  own  words  to  be  few  and  poor,  they 
think  they  might  become  writers  and  speakers  by  acquiring 
a  larger  and  better  vocabulary.  So  soon  as  one  discerns, 
however,  what  is  meant  by  enlarging  a  vocabulary,  he 
learns  that  the  study  of  writing  and  speaking  is  not  a  study 
of  words  exclusively,  nor  even  primarily.  For  a  man's 
vocabulary  merely  reflects  his  experience,  his  actual  experi- 
ence in  his  own  affairs  and  his  vicarious  experience  through 
reading.  If  he  has  more  words  than  ideas,  he  is  hardly  the 
richer;  and  certainly  he  is  no  nearer  to  being  a  writer.  This 
means  that  the  study  of  writing  and  speaking,  in  the  larger 
sense,  is  a  study  of  Ufe,  and  that  our  first  concern  must 
always  be  what  we  have  to  say,  not  words  but  matter. 

In  this  aspect  writing  and  speaking  are  an  affair,  not  of 
any  one  book  or  course,  but  of  many  courses,  of  all  courses 
and  all  experience;  in  other  words,  of  education.  So,  in- 
deed, we  must  all  study  writing  and  speaking  indirectly. 
But  we  may  also  study  directly  how  to  utter  what  we  know, 
and  the  study  will  help  us  to  know  better.  As  all  our  studies 
and  experience  should  make  us  better  worth  expressing,  so 
this  direct  study  should  help  us  to  express  ourselves  better. 
That  seems  to  be  the  fundamental  relation  of  art  to  life.  Is 
this  direct  study  a  study  of  words?  Yes,  constantly,  but 
incidentally.     A  word   cannot  be   considered  apart  from 

1 


2  INTRODUCTION 

what  it  stands  for,  from  the  idea  or  the  image.  To  find  the 
right  word,  we  must  examine  our  own  thought  while  we 
examine  the  dictionary.  As  we  do  this  again  and  again  — 
for  we  must  do  it  as  long  as  we  Uve  —  we  become  both  more 
precise  and  more  fluent.  We  gain  expertness  and  readiness 
with  words,  but  not  separately,  nor  merely  by  the  study  of 
words.  The  vocabulary  grows  with  the  man.  Style,  ac- 
cording to  a  familiar  saying,  is  the  man  himself;  and  this  is 
true  not  only  of  style  in  the  special  sense  of  literary  dis- 
tinction, but  also  of  style  in  the  general  sense  of  diction. 

But  while  diction,  the  use  of  single  words  and  phrases, 
must  be  studied  incidentally  and  constantly,  composition, 
the  art  of  putting  them  together,  may  be  learned  more  di- 
rectly, consecutively,  and  rapidly.  Though  a  com-se  in  dic- 
tion is  hard  to  conceive,  a  course  in  composition  is  as  natural 
and  economical  as  it  is  coromon.  Here  again  we  must  re- 
member that  what  we  are  really  composing  is  not  words, 
but  ideas  and  images.  A  speech  is  made  of  words  —  finally; 
but  while  it  is  in  the  making  the  speaker  is  arranging  his 
ideas,  and  he  often  has  the  main  fines  determined  before  he 
chooses  finally  the  right  words.  Some  words,  of  course,  he 
has  from  the  beginning;  he  cannot  think  without  them;  but 
the  precise  words  for  a  particular  place  he  may  select  after 
he  has  arranged  his  ideas.  He  studies  the  order  of  his  ideas 
before  he  studies  his  words.  For  composition,  in  the  literal 
sense  of  putting  together,  is  in  great  part  distinct  from  dic- 
tion, structure  from  style.  The  former,  being  usually  a 
more  definite  process,  can  be  more  readily  studied,  prac- 
tised, and  learned.  Thus  the  greater  part  of  the  positive 
teaching  and  practise  of  rhetoric  is  properly  devoted  to 
composition.  A  manual  of  rhetoric  has  less  to  teach  about 
style  than  about  movement. 

The  study  of  composition  seeks  to  promote  effective  or- 
dering of  ideas  and  of  images.     Any  given  composition  deals 


INTRODUCTION  3 

mainly  with  the  one,  or  mainly  with  the  other.  Though  it 
may,  indeed,  seek  both  objects  at  once,  in  most  cases  there 
is  at  least  a  predominance  of  one  over  the  other,  and  a  cor- 
responding adjustment  of  method.  On  any  given  occasion 
the  main  direction,  the  order  of  the  whole,  is  gauged  either, 
on  the  one  hand,  to  convey  information,  impart  ideas,  urge 
action,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  to  suggest  images,  stimulate 
perception,  widen  or  intensify  experience.  So  as  readers  we 
seek  some  books  for  information  or  ideas  about  life,  and 
other  books  for  a  keener  sense  of  life  itself.  So  any  given 
writer,  according  to  his  bent  and  habit,  may  be  roughly 
classified  as  a  writer  of  ideas  or  as  a  writer  of  images.  This 
two-fold  classification  appears  in  the  Greek  division  of  all 
composition  in  words  into  rhetoric  and  poetic.  The  division 
is  permanent  because  it  is  fundamental. 

As  the  Greeks  thus  distinguished  by  its  method  a  speech 
of  Demosthenes  from  a  drama  of  Sophocles,  we  may  distin- 
guish not  only  Bacon's  essays  from  Shakspere's  plays,  but 
The  Imitation  of  Christ  from  Pilgrim's  Progress,  or  a  speech 
on  prison  reform  from  Dickens's  Little  Darrit.  For  the  two- 
fold division  underlies  a  great  variety  of  literary  forms.  It 
has  no  reference  to  details,  as  of  prose  or  verse.  Scott's 
stories,  whether  in  prose  or  in  verse,  all  alike  come  under 
the  second  head.  Except  in  a  few  essays,  Scott  was  always 
a  writer  of  images.  Indeed,  the  classification  is  not  prima- 
rily of  literary  forms,  but  rather  of  hterary  method,  of  com- 
position in  the  most  general  sense.  In  this  broad  sense, 
most  prose  writing  and  speaking  may  be  classified  either  as 
discussion  or  as  story. 

The  two-fold  division  underlies  also  the  current  four-fold 
division  into  exposition,  argument,  description,  and  narration. 
For  exposition  and  argument  on  the  one  hand  are  more 
sharply  distinguished  from  description  and  narration  on  the 
other  hand  than  exposition  is  from  argument,  or  description 


4  INTRODUCTION 

from  narration.  It  is  even  doubtful  that  we  should  speak  of 
four  kinds.  Though  exposition  is  often  separate  from  argu- 
ment, it  is  also  often  combined,  even  when  the  object  is 
mainly  expository;  and,  of  course,  argument  is  rarely  possi- 
ble without  exposition.  Moreover,  the  two  are  generally 
aUke  in  method.  Description  has  never  been  in  practise  a 
distinct  form,  and  was  rarely  so  regarded  in  theory  until 
very  modern  times.  It  is  more  justly  regarded,  and  will  be 
more  readily  grasped,  as  a  form  of  narration.  The  distinc- 
tion between  the  two,  being  unknown  either  to  makers  of 
stories  or  to  makers  of  dictionaries,  had  better  be  disre- 
garded. But  the  difference  of  method  between  most  forms 
of  discussion  and  most  forms  of  story  runs  "through  all 
Uterature. 

This  fundamental  difference  of  method,  not  precluding 
combination,  but  determining  the  main  course  or  line  of 
presentation,  is  daily  before  our  eyes.  When  the  newspaper, 
which  is  mainly  information  and  discussion,  turns  in  some 
column  to  imagination,  we  discern  a  difference  in  the  way  of 
writing.  The  difference  is  plainer  in  magazines,  which  are 
rather  sharply  divided  into  essays,  or  discussions,  and  sto- 
ries. Any  single  book  is  more  or  less  distinctly  either  a  dis- 
cussion or  a  story,  and  is  planned  and  composed  accordingly. 
A  treatise  on  the  Frontier  in  American  Social  Developmenty 
dealing  with  the  material  found  in  -Cooper's  Pioneer  or  Bret 
Harte's  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  presents  that  material  very 
differently.  Even  when  a  single  work  includes  both  kinds 
of  writing,  as  a  history  or  a  biography,  for  instance,  may  be 
both  discussion  and  story,  one  aim  so  predominates  as  to 
determine  the  plan,  and  the  other  becomes  subordinate. 
Some  histories  are  mainly  expository;  others  are  mainly 
narrative.  But  how  exactly  the  two-fold  division  differen- 
tiates the  forms  of  literature  is  another  matter.  Literary 
forms  are  so  much  less  definite,  so  much  more  shifting,  than 


INTRODUCTION  5 

the  familiar  forms  of  other  arts,  that  we  gain  httle  by  classi- 
fying them.  What  we  are  concerned  to  classify  for  practi- 
cal study  is  Uterary  methods.  These  we  see  to  have,  whether 
singly  or  in  combination,  two  main  directions.  The  ways  of 
effectiveness  in  discussion  are  different  from  the  ways  of 
effectiveness  in  story.  Obviously,  everybody's  practical  con- 
cern is  with  the  former,  with  what  may  be  called  composi- 
tion for  business;  but  education,  and  especially  higher 
education,  is  so  much  widened  and  deepened  by  grasp  of  the 
latter  that  a  college  manual  must  include  both.  College 
study  needs  both  rhetoric  and  poetic.  In  a  single  work  of 
literature  the  one  may  or  may  not  be  brought  in  to  help  the 
other;  but  each  must  help  the  other  in  any  student's  use  of 
composition  for  training.  Practically,  then,  the  study  of 
prose  composition  explores  methods  of  presentation,  that 
is  of  effective  order,  both  in  the  field  of  information  and  dis- 
cussion and  in  the  field  of  imagination. 


PART  I.    COMPOSITION  OF  IDEAS 


CHAPTER    I 
INFORMATION 

Information  is  a  boast  of  modern  times.  Every  one,  we 
are  wont  to  say,  may  know.  What  with  pubUc  schools, 
pubUc  Ubraries,  and,  above  all,  newspapers,  the  whole  world 
is  informed.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  all  these  means  there 
obviously  remains  much  ignorance.  Everywhere  informa- 
tion needs  to  be  supplemented,  directed,  interpreted.  To 
make  people  really  know  is  still  as  important  as  it  is  inter- 
esting. Even  as  to  the  commonest  topics  of  current  discus- 
sion, such  as  the  working  of  a  gas  engine,  for  instance,  or 
the  meaning  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine,  or  the  organization  of 
the  National  Guard,  the  Hague  Tribunal,  or  the  Supreme 
Court,  many  of  us  have  little  exact  knowledge.  No  im- 
provement in  ease  of  commimication  can  ever  preclude  the 
necessity  of  study  for  finding  facts  or  for  conveying  them. 
To  give,  and  even  to  receive,  information  must  always  imply 
search  and  thought.  These  are  the  tasks  of  the  educated; 
and  it  is  especially  a  task  of  college  education  to  discern  the 
facts  and  to  convey  them.  The  leadership  of  the  educated, 
which  is  a  condition  of  effective  democracy,  depends  largely 
on  such  discernment  and  interpretation  as  are  learned  at 
college  in  laboratories,  in  the  study  of  history  and  economics, 
and  in  various  other  directions  of  method.  Composition 
focuses  all  college  studies  of  facts,  and  at  the  same  time 
gives  them  wider  scope.  To  report  on  a  mining  property 
or  to  write  a  prospectus  is  all  the  more  educative  because 
it  is  practical.     Thus  composition  is  no  less  important  in 

9 


10  INFORMATION 

itfie'  practical  ,t^Ji* in  the  liberal  arts.  Indeed,  to  write  an 
2  itein,  in  a.fjurvey  of  geology  or  forestry  or  industry  is  worth 
;  :while  bften^r.  ,^nd  more  largely  than  to  write  a  book  review. 
For  though  information  is  rarely  an  end  in  itself,  it  is  a  neces- 
sary means;  it  cannot  be  acquired  without  training;  and 
this  training,  combined  from  various  studies,  is  a  large  object 
in  any  college  course. 

Though  a  sense  of  fact  is  developed  rather  from  many 
studies  than  from  any  one  course,  the  most  direct  means  is 
the  study  of  composition.  This  study,  having  no  subject 
matter  of  its  own,  is  a  complement  to  all  other  studies;  for 
its  object  is  to  make  them  all  more  effective.  By  calling 
upon  a  student  of  engineering  to  present  consecutively  to 
uninformed  readers  what  he  knows  about  a  certain  type  of 
bridge,  or  upon  a  student  of  New  England  colonial  history 
to  define  the  organization  of  the  town  meeting,  it  puts  his 
information  to  the  test  of  presentation.  Qui  docet  discit 
is  a  good  proverb.  Such  practice  in  acquiring  discernment 
through  facts  may  be,  sometimes  is,  given  separately  by  the 
instructor  in  engineering  or  in  history;  but  in  American  col- 
leges it  is  given  generally  by  courses  in  composition.  This 
is  not  because  college  composition  can  be  separated  from 
the  subject  matter  of  college  studies,  but  simply  for  econ- 
omy of  teaching.  The  fundamental  problems  of  composi- 
tion, being  the  same  for  all  subjects,  are  more  readily  and 
more  consecutively  studied  with  specialists  in  presentation. 
We  are  assured  by  the  experience  of  many  centuries  that 
information  needs  to  be  stimulated,  tested,  and  supple- 
mented by  presentation,  and  that  presentation  can  generally 
be  promoted  best  by  a  course  which  is  at  once  separate  and 
related  to  any  other  course.  College  composition,  then,  is 
an  art  among  sciences,  an  instrument  of  all  studies,  a  direct 
means  of  promoting  grasp  of  knowledge  and  effectiveness  in 
using  it. 


FACTS  11 


I.    SEEKING  INFORMATION 

Most  of  the  facts  handled  in  college  composition  come 
from  reading.  The  other  obvious  som-ce,  observation, 
though  it  may  suggest  or  supplement,  is  rarely  sufficient  of 
itself.  Observation  of  the  management  of  a  forest  reserve, 
for  instance,  needs  to  be  corrected,  supplemented,  and  in 
part  directed  by  the  printed  reports  of  the  Forest  Service 
and  by  accounts  of  the  system  followed  in  Germany;  obser- 
vation of  a  particular  method  of  stage  presentation,  by  read- 
ing about  this  and  other  methods.  For  college  composition 
ought  to  command  attention  by  its  substance  and  try  to 
show  things  in  relation.  Though  the  most  fruitful  topics, 
especially  for  preliminary  practice,  are  those  that  open  both 
observation  and  research,  it  is  from  the  latter  that  we  learn 
method  for  both.^ 

1.    Facts 

The  fundamental  questions  of  research  are  (1)  What  are 
the  facts?  and  (2)  What  do  these  facts  mean?  Though  the 
second,  of  course,  must  wait  for  the  first,  it  should  always 
be  kept  in  mind,  and  at  each  stage  of  research  should  be 
answered  provisionally,  by  forecast  to  be  corrected  later. 
Otherwise  the  collection  of  facts  may  become  miscellaneous. 
Apprehension  of  facts  and  interpretation  of  facts  go  hand  in 
hand.    Nevertheless  the  two  questions  are  separate;  and  to 

lA  third  approach  is  omitted  here  as  generally  impracticable  in 
college,  the  cross-questioning  of  witnesses.  But  the  lawyer's  way  of 
doing  this,  and  the  reporter's  way  too,  though  too  special  to  be  fol- 
lowed closely,  are  very  suggestive  in  attitude  and  idea.  Both  are 
methods  of  sifting,  of  testing  a  report  (1)  singly,  as  to  its  precision 
and  consistency,  and  (2)  in  connection  with  other  reports,  to  bring 
out  corroboration  or  contradiction.  Both  have  the  habit  of  asking 
leading  questions.     These  ways  are  no  less  essential  in  research. 


12  SEEKING  INFORMATION 

keep  them  apart,  to  distinguish  between  fact  and  inference, 
is  vital  to  research.  The  investigator  does,  indeed,  inter- 
pret provisionally  as  he  goes  along;  but  he  does  not  confuse 
interpretation  with  fact.  He  keeps  the  two  distinct  in  his 
mind.  A  fact  is  a  past  happening  or  a  present  condition, 
not  an  inference;  it  is  single,  specific  in  time  and  place,  con- 
crete, not  an  abstract  generaUzation. 

(1)  The Belt  Lacer  Company  on  January  1,  1910,  intro- 
duced iQto  its department  a  system  of  profit-sharing.     At 

the  end  of  this  year  the  increase  of  production  in  this  depart- 
ment was  30  per  cent.     (2)  The Manufacturing  Company 

reports  for  1915  a  production  per  workman  35  per  cent,  above 
the  average  in  this  industry  for  those  factories  which  do  not  prac- 
tise profit-sharing.  Statements  such  as  these  are  statements  of 
fact.  (3)  Profit-sharing  iucreases  the  efficiency  of  workmen. 
That  is  not  a  statement  of  fact;  it  is  an  inference,  or  generaliza- 
tion. An  investigator  may  accept  it  as  true  only  when  he  knows 
many  more  of  the  facts  on  which  it  is  based,  only  when  it  be- 
comes his  own  inference;  and  whether  he  accepts  it  or  rejects  it, 
he  treats  it  as  an  inference,  not  as  a  statement  of  fact.  The 
statements  that  he  meantime  gathers  in  his  notes  are  such  as  (1) 
and  (2)  above. 

(1)  In 1913  the  employees  of  the  Colorado  Fuel  and  Iron 

Company    went   on    strike.     (2)  Their     demands    were: . 

(3)  The  armed  guards  of  the  company  did  thus  and  so  on  such  and 

such  dates.    (4)  On the  state  militia  was  sent  in;  and  (5)  on 

it  met  armed  resistance  from  the  employees.     Again  these 

are  typical  statements  of  fact,  of  a  few  facts  among  the  many  to 
be  determined  in  this  case.  But  (6)  the  right  of  the  company 
to  use  armed  guards  in  certain  ways,  or  (7)  the  duty  of  the  state 
to  intervene  with  the  miUtia,  or  (8)  the  right  of  the  employees  to 
resist  —  any  one  of  these  latter  is  an  idea;  it  cannot  be  seen, 
heard,  reported  to  witnesses;  it  is  abstract.  Whether  we  accept 
it  or  reject  it,  it  is  not  a  fact.  Moreover  we  can  rightly  esti- 
mate any  of  these  ideas  only  when  we  know  the  facts. 


COLLATION  13 

A  statement  of  fact,  then,  is  a  statement  of  past  happen- 
ing or  present  condition,  not  an  inference;  it  is  concrete,  not 
abstract.  When  is  such  a  statement  to  be  accepted?  In 
general,  every  alleged  fact  must  be  proved  to  be  a  fact  by- 
sufficient  testimony;  in  general  also,  the  only  testimony  suf- 
ficient in  a  given  case  is  the  best  testimony  obtainable  in  that 
case.  This  latter  is  a  maxim  of  law.  Thus  the  law  demands, 
whenever  it  is  possible,  oral  testimony  by  witnesses  subject 
to  cross-examination.  Though  cross-examination  is  beyond 
the  possibilities  of  e very-day  investigation,  the  maxim  is  a 
sound  principle.  Not  only  law,  but  also  the  common  sense 
of  educated  people,  demands  the  verification  of  facts  by  the 
best  tests  in  any  given  case  available.  No  statements  not 
thus  corroborated  need  be  accepted;  no  witness  need  be 
credited  that  does  not  appear  reasonably  careful  in  his  obser- 
vations, responsible,  and  free  from  bias  and  self-interest. 
Without  challenging  any  one's  honesty,  the  statements  of 
a  lumber  merchant  concerning  material  for  ships  may  be 
checked  by  those  of  a  steel  merchant;  those  of  a  Repub- 
lican concerning  imports  by  those  of  a  Democrat;  etc. 
Without  such  checks  research  reaches  no  solid  basis. 

2.    Collation 

To  attain  solidity,  to  be  sure  of  the  facts,  research  pro- 
ceeds by  collation  and  by  reference  to  authority.  This  sort 
of  reading  sets  aside  once  for  all  that  casual  acceptance  of  cur- 
rent report  and  popular  generalization  which  with  the  unedu- 
cated passes  for  reading.  Reading,  for  thousands  of  people, 
means  only  reading  the  newspapers.  Individuals  of  some 
education  use  a  few  books,  usually  such  as  fall  in  their  way; 
but  it  is  only  the  educated  few  who  have  learned  to  read  by 
using  a  library.  The  effective  use  of  a  library  is  at  the  very 
core  of  higher  education.  Not  a  book,  but  books;  not  one 
source,  but  many;  not  transcription,  but  comparison;  —  in 


14  SEEKING  INFORMATION 

some  such  phrase  may  be  summed  up  the  task  of  reading 
for  information.  Putting  away  casual  acceptance  and 
seeking  verification  by  comparison  and  search  for  author- 
ity, a  serious  student  can  quite  rapidly  cultivate  a  sense  of 
fact.  The  habitual  accuracy  of  a  well  educated  man  is  not 
merely  care  in  expression;  it  begins  with  care  in  research, 
and  this  in  turn  begins  with  a  working  knowledge  of  a 
large  library. 

Every  university  or  public  library  centers  in  its  reference 
room.  This  is  the  room  for  the  first  task  of  research,  the 
bringing  of  books  together.  Among  the  thousands  of  books 
on  the  shelves,  perhaps  a  score  are  needed  for  the  particular 
topic.  Which  are  these?  Perhaps  half  of  them  require  but 
a  few  minutes  and  the  others  demand  extensive  reading. 
Which  is  which?  The  object  of  the  reference  room  is  to 
answer  these  questions  so  far  as  possible  in  advance.  It  is  a 
room  of  guide-books  to  knowledge,  of  general  books  telling 
what  special  books  to  seek  and  what  sort  of  information  to 
expect.  The  special  books,  when  brought  together,  will  tell 
at  need  where  to  look  further.  The  reference  room  thus  in- 
vites comparison;  it  is  devised  for  correcting  this  account  by 
that  and  supplementing  both  with  a  third.  Its  function, 
then,  is  two-fold:  first,  to  facilitate  that  preliminary  survey 
which  gives  general  notions  and  boimdaries  and  shows  how  a 
particular  investigation  may  be  limited;  secondly,  to  facili- 
tate comparison  on  particular  points.  A  student  may  save 
many  later  hours  by  devoting  his  first  spare  time  on  enter- 
ing college  to  the  exploration  of  the  reference  room,  locating 
and  glancing  over  the  cyclopedias  and  bibliographies,  gen- 
eral and  special,  the  atlases  and  gazetteers,  the  general 
manuals  for  the  subjects  he  is  to  study,  and  the  system  of 
the  card  catalogue.  In  this  way  he  will  be  the  readier,  not 
only  for  college  composition,  but  for  college  education  as  a 
whole.    The  center  of  every  college  is  its  hbrary;  and  col- 


AUTHORITY  15 

lege  education  consists  less  in  lectures  and  text-books  and 
recitations  than  in  reading  and  thinking. 

3.    Authority 

The  verification  of  facts  proceeds  not  only  by  comparison, 
but  also  by  seeking  authority.  Standard  books  of  reference 
sometimes  tell  which  accounts  are  accepted  as  authoritative; 
and  in  certain  fields  authority  attaches  to  the  reports  of  such 
federal  bureaus  as  the  Forest  Service  and  the  Department 
of  Commerce  and  Labor,  and  of  certain  private  ''founda- 
tions" for  more  special  research.  All  these  are  accessible  in 
a  large  Ubrary;  they  are  often  available  even  for  students 
without  technical  knowledge;  and  the  use  of  them  is  a  safe- 
guard against  hasty  assumption  or  half-knowledge.  They 
show,  moreover,  more  extensively  than  most  college  work 
can  do,  the  results  of  thoroughness  in  research  and  accuracy 
in  presentation.  A  college  essay  or  address  must  be  inter- 
esting, or  it  is  only  half  done;  but  it  must  be  accurate,  or  it 
is  badly  done. 

a.    BOOKS  AND   PERIODICALS 

The  habit  of  verifying  facts  by  collation  and  by  seeking 
authority  can  be  begun  better  through  the  use  of  books 
than  through  the  use  of  periodicals.  Such  periodicals  as  are 
accurate  and  authoritative  are  often  too  technical  for  most 
students;  and  the  popular  magazines  and  the  newspapers  are 
generally  less  responsible  and  less  well  digested  than  books. 
Expert  as  newspapers  are  in  collecting  information,  they  are 
so  much  concerned  with  telling  facts  promptly  and  attract- 
ively that  they  lose  something  in  accuracy.  In  magazines, 
too,  the  main  object  is  often  interest.  The  difficulty  is  not 
that  periodicals  are  intentionally  inaccurate,  but  they  are 
so  unintentionally  from  the  necessity  of  haste  and  the  occa- 
sional sacrifice  of  information  to  interest.     Accurate  infor- 


16  SEEKING  INFORMATION 

mation  must  always  be  the  main  concern  of  a  student  in 
seeking  facts.  Interest  he  will  supply  himself  by  his  own 
way  of  adapting  the  subject  to  his  own  audience.  Period- 
icals are  written  to  tell  us  at  once  what  is  going  on  now.  In 
current  matters  which  concern  us  deeply,  or  which  are  in 
dispute,  we  compare  two  or  three  accounts,  checking  off  one 
by  the  others.  Excellent  practise  in  discrimination  such 
comparison  is  most  surely;  but  it  may  be  very  difficult.  Now 
the  author  of  a  book  has  presumably  done  this  sifting  for  us. 
At  least  he  has  had  the  time;  at  least  we  may  expect  him  to 
have  selected  the  most  significant  facts  and  cast  aside  the 
trivial.  A  book,  then,  is  more  promising  as  a  first  source  of 
information.  For  the  rest,  we  must  measure  it  by  its  repu- 
tation and  by  comparison  with  other  books,  and  in  cases  of 
dispute  know  what  is  the  authority. 

Not  all  books  are  superior  to  all  periodicals.  Some  books 
are  trash;  some  few  periodicals  are  themselves  authorities  in 
special  fields.  Moreover,  for  certain  subjects  of  current 
discussion  the  use  of  periodicals  is  necessary,  though  hardly 
ever  the  exclusive  use.  The  point  of  method  in  seeking  in- 
formation from  either  is  to  verify  and  supplement  by  colla- 
tion and  by  going  back,  in  any  disputed  matter,  as  near  as 
possible  to  authority.  The  legal  maxim  that  the  evidence 
must  in  every  case  be  the  best  available  is  good  for  all  kinds 
of  investigation.  The  conveying  of  information  lays  on  the 
educated  from  the  beginning  a  moral  obligation.  It  demands 
both  honesty  and  pains. 

But  research  is  as  valuable  and  as  stimulating  education- 
ally as  it  is  hard.  College  education  cannot  consist  in  re- 
ceiving information  already  digested  and  interpreted.  That 
must  often  suffice  for  people  who  are  without  college  oppor- 
tunities; but  for  college  students  research  and  interpretation 
are  vital.  There  is  an  essential  difference  between  learning 
chemistry  altogether  from  a  text-book  or  lectures  and  hav- 


AUTHORITY  17 

ing  the  experience  of  the  laboratory.  The  facts  arrived  at 
may  be  the  same;  but  what  comits  educationally  is  the  proc- 
ess of  getting  them,  and  the  process  of  getting  them  has 
much  to  do  with  the  ability  to  give  them.  The  study  of  the 
sciences  has  the  method  and  the  zest  of  exploration.  Other 
studies,  dealing  more  with  ideas  and  less  with  facts,  may 
keep  an  equal  zest  in  different  methods  of  research;  and  in 
every  college  study  what  counts  educationally  is  the  search. 
This  gives  a  student  increasing  control,  not  only  of  his  ma- 
terial, but  of  himself.  Composition  enters  to  stimulate  and 
guide  research  by  demanding  it  for  immediate  presentation. 
By  making  us  tell  what  we  know  it  forces  us  to  sound  our 
knowledge  and  bring  it  to  bear. 


II.   GATHERING  INFORMATION 

Skill  in  bringing  knowledge  to' bear  is  directly  promoted 
by  that  essential  of  all  research  for  composition,  the  com- 
parison or  collation  of  sources.  For  real  profit,  in  composi- 
tion based  on  reading  for  information,  this  is  practically 
indispensable.  An  essay  or  speech  based  on  a  single  source 
is  hardly  a  composition;  it  is  only  a  digest  or  paraphrase.  It 
gives  no  practise  in  planning;  for  it  takes  the  plan  ready 
made.  But  the  very  skill  sought  is  plan,  organization,  or 
order.  Bringing  knowledge  to  bear  demands  organization; 
and  organization  means  arranging  material  in  effective  order. 
Though  this  is  largely  the  task  of  actual  composition  after 
the  material  has  been  gathered,  it  begins  with  the  research. 
Comparison  and  grouping  should  begin  with  the  taking  of 
notes,  not  only  for  the  help  that  this  gives  toward  the  plan- 
ning of  a  particular  composition,  but  for  the  general  training 
of  investigation  and  interpretation.  That  is  the  kind  of 
education  proper  to  a  large  university  or  public  Ubrary  as 
distinct  from  the  kind  proper  to  a  small  private  Ubrary. 


18  GATHERING  INFORMATION 

One  is  for  extensive  reading,  the  other  for  intensive;  one  for 
information,  the  other  for  inspiration.  Poring  over  one 
book  from  cover  to  cover  is  one  kind  of  reading,  and  there  is 
none  better  for  its  purpose;  but  research,  being  for  a  differ- 
ent purpose,  demands  a  different  habit.  It  demands,  for 
real  value  in  the  final  written  or  spoken  production  and, 
beyond  that,  in  the  student's  education,  that  the  reading  be 
spent,  not  in  absorbing  one  book,  but  in  choosing  from  sev- 
eral. Thus,  while  he  is  taught  by  several  teachers,  the  stu- 
dent will  himself  both  learn  and  teach  with  better  mastery. 

1.    Notes 

Effectively  to  bring  several  books  to  bear  in  a  given  time 
on  certain  given  points  of  fact  is  a  skill  so  important  that  it 
should  be  sought  at  once  by  system  in  the  taking  of  notes. 
For  research  is  never  mere  accumulation.  It  always  involves 
looking  into  facts  for  their  bearing;  it  demands,  not  only 
reading,  but  thinking.  Though  no  system  of  note-taking  is 
applicable  universally,  and  any  system  is  likely  to  be  modi- 
fied by  individual  need  and  habit,  experience  has  estabhshed 
as  general  rules  that  notes  of  fact,  i.e.  of  information,  should 
be  (1)  on  uniform  small  slips,  (2)  brief,  (3)  specific  as  to 
source.  Uniform  small  note-slips  are  merely  an  application 
of  the  modern  system  of  card  catalogue,  or  vertical  filing, 
which  has  largely  superseded,  in  business  and  in  many  col- 
lege studies  no  less  than  in  libraries,  the  older  note-books. 
Notes  taken  in  a  bound  book  cannot  be  easily  arranged,  for 
either  reference  or  composition,  without  being  copied;  and 
copying  is  a  waste  of  time.  Notes  taken  on  cards  can  be 
readily  arranged  in  any  order  desired  at  the  time,  and  as 
readily  rearranged  when  the  order  is  revised.  Though  li- 
brary cards  are  usually  the  most  convenient  to  buy  and  to 
use,  any  cards  or  shps  will  answer  if  only  they  are  imiform 
in  size;  for  the  point  is  simply  to  keep  each  note  separate 


NOTES  19 

and  readily  adjustable.  Notes  are  generally  best  taken  in 
lead-pencil.  After  the  composition  is  written  or  spoken, 
they  should  be  destroyed.  It  is  rarely  wise  for  any  one  to 
make  a  permanent  collection  of  notes  except  in  the  mature 
studies  of  his  profession.  But  during  the  whole  process  of 
research  and  composition  the  progressive  classification  of  the 
notes  should  be  none  the  less  systematic. 

a.   QUOTATION 

Next  to  having  notes  instantly  available  on  separate  slips, 
the  most  important  thing  is  to  have  them  brief.  People  who 
heap  up  notes  often  write  before  they  think,  sometimes  write 
instead  of  thinking.  Notes  in  themselves  never  made  any 
one  wise  or  ready.  Of  course,  the  volume  of  notes  must  de- 
pend somewhat  on  the  subject;  but  in  general  the  aim  should 
be  to  keep  notes  down.  To  this  end  it  is  well  to  be  chary 
of  quotation.  Quotations  add  much  to  the  bulk  of  notes. 
They  are  very  likely  to  be  abandoned  after  further  reading, 
or,  if  they  are  kept,  to  hinder  expression  in  one's  own  way. 
And  finally,  they  are  of  little  use.  Once  in  a  while  a  point 
is  scored  by  quoting  authority;  more  often,  quotation  fixes 
a  definition.  Otherwise  a  quotation  is  likely  to  be  worth  no 
more  than  the  fact  that  it  contains;  and  that  can  usually  be 
noted  better  and  more  briefly  in  one's  own  words.  No  seri- 
ous student  ought  to  see  any  value  in  making  of  himself  a 
copying  machine. 

h.    PARAPHRASE 

Nor  is  research  usually  much  furthered  by  paraphrase. 
As  an  exercise  paraphrase,  or  digest,  has  some  value  in  ele- 
mentary training,  and  it  has  also  certain  specific  uses;  ^  but 
it  is  not  generally  a  good  way  of  taking  notes.    Generally 

*  The  commonest  uses  are  for  summary  of  expert  opinion,  as  in  an 
interview  or  report,  and  for  digest  of  correspondence,  especially  oflfi- 
cial  correspondence. 


20  GATHERING  INFORMATION 

the  object  of  note-taking  is  served,  not  by  repeating  the 
source  consecutively  in  its  own  order,  but  by  detaching  its 
facts  for  use  in  such  order  as  is  later  found  best  for  one's  own 
appUcation.  There  is  no  use  in  rewriting  a  whole  article  or 
chapter.  In  its  own  order  it  presumably  serves  its  own  pur- 
pose; but  it  contains  material  irrelevant  to  some  other  pur- 
pose, which  in  turn  will  demand  another  order,  and  which 
meantime  demands  the  use  of  other  sources.  Instead  of 
paraphrase,  then,  note-taking  should  be  selection  of  such 
facts  only  as  appear  relevant  to  a  particular  purpose,  the 
use  of  a  separate  slip  for  each  separate  fact,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  that  fact  in  so  many  words  only  as  will  serve  for  a 
clear  reminder.  Such  note-taking  is  incidentally  good  prac- 
tise in  condensation,  in  expressing  the  gist.  It  does  not 
obscure  the  bearing  by  superfluous  words,  or  hamper  one's 
own  appUcation  by  suggesting  some  one  else's.  More  im- 
portant still,  it  teaches  discrimination  between  fact  and  in- 
ference; and  it  leaves  the  composer  free,  when  he  comes  to 
write  or  speak,  from  any  language  but  his  own.  On  a  sub- 
ject that  he  really  understands  and  feels,  any  intelligent 
person  can  be  original  if  he  rehandles  it  freely  in  his  own 
words,  from  his  own  point  of  view,  and  for  a  definite  pur- 
pose or  audience.  And  unless  it  is  original  as  a  result, 
the  composition  is  hardly  worth  while  even  as  a  task. 

C.   CITATION 

Every  note  should  add  a  citation  of  its  source  by  volume 
and  page.  This  is  worth,  in  the  long  run,  all  the  time  it 
takes.  It  is  necessary,  not  only  for  assertions  open  to  doubt 
or  dispute,  but  in  general  for  verification  and  estimate  of 
value,  for  responsibihty  in  the  final  interpretation,  and 
meantime  for  system  in  research.  And  the  time  of  making 
citations  may  be  shortened  by  writing  out  the  title  of  each 
book  or  article  once  in  full,  on  a  card  to  be  kept  with  similar 


NOTES  21 

ones  in  a  separate  packet,  and  by  abbreviated  reference 
on  the  note-cards.  For  any  extended  discussion  the  title- 
cards  will  furnish  the  Ust  of  books,  or  bibhography,  that  is 
usually  required.  On  the  note-cards  the  citation  should  be 
made  after  the  note  rather  than  before,  since  thus  the  top  of 
the  card  is  left  free  for  the  tentative  general  heading  which 
serves  to  classify  as  one  reads.  Thus  also,  when  a  second  or 
third  source  gives  the  same  fact,  a  second  or  third  citation 
can  be  added  readily  to  the  single  note,  serving  as  confirma- 
tion. When,  on  the  contrary,  a  second  source  disputes  the 
assertion  of  the  first,  this  dispute  can  as  easily  be  indicated 
on  the  single  note  and  becomes  a  reminder  of  the  necessity 
of  further  investigation.  In  the  comparatively  few  cases 
where  a  single  note  with  its  citations  must  run  over  to 
another  card,  this  can  be  indicated  by  numbering  those  cards. 
By  such  a  simple  system  a  typical  note-card  looks  like 
this: 


Negro  Legislators:  Increase  of  State  Debts 

Louisiana 1868,  $6,000,000;  1872,  $50,000,000 

S.  Carolina    "      5,000,000;      "       18,000,000 

Burgess,  Reconstruction  and  the  Constitution,  265. 

Increase  in  11  states  by  1872,  $131,717,778. 

Dunning,  Reconstruction,  xiii. 


d.   CLASSIFICATION 

The  classifying  headings  may  at  first  be  general  and  ten- 
tative. As  one  reads  further,  they  can  be  made  more  spe- 
cific and  be  subdivided.  For  the  classification,  or  analysis  of 
the  material,  should  grow  with  the  research.  Reading  for 
information,  no  less  than  other  reading,  must  be  mixed  with 
thinking.    Before  opening  another  book  it  is  wise  to  take 


22  GATHEBTNG  INFORMATION 

account  of  what  is  gathered  already,  of  what  seems  to  be 
needed  next,  and  in  general  of  scope  and  direction.  Thus 
one  may  most  economically  read  from  book  to  book,  dis- 
carding one  as  superfluous  or  superseded,  selecting  another 
as  in  the  right  direction,  finding  what  is  relevant  in  a  third 
and  fourth  by  glancing  over  tables  of  contents  or  chapter- 
headings,  passing  over  a  fifth  to  use  instead  the  sixth  from 
which  it  is  evidently  derived.  Such  survey  of  the  accumu- 
lating notes  practically  demands  classification;  but  neither 
for  this  purpose  of  analysis  nor  for  the  final  presentation 
need  the  classification  be  elaborate.  Exhaustive  treatment, 
of  course,  would  demand  exhaustive  analysis,  i.e.,  scientific 
division;  but  limited  treatment  for  a  particular  essay  or 
address  is  sufficiently  analyzed  by  comparatively  few  sub- 
divisions. Nor  should  there  be  any  effort  to  make  the  head- 
ings of  the  notes  correspond  to  the  paragraphs  of  the 
composition.  The  paragraph  plan,  being  an  affair  less  of  head- 
ings than  of  stages  or  order,  had  better  be  considered  sepa- 
rately.   All  that  the  notes  need  is  classification  for  reference. 

(1)  Division 

Nevertheless  even  such  classification  has  something  to 
learn  from  scientific  method,  i.e.,  from  logic.  The  headings 
of  a  logical  division  are:  (1)  exhaustive,  i.e.,  there  are  no 
others;  (2)  mutually  exclusive,  i.e.,  they  do  not  overlap; 
and  (3)  uniform,  i.e.,  they  follow  a  single  principle.  Thus 
Gray's  large  volume  divides  surgical  anatomy  into  osteol- 
ogy, articulations,  muscles  and  fasciae,  arteries,  veins,  nerv- 
ous system,  etc.  Similarly  Gray  divides  the  nervous  system 
into  all  its  parts.  No  valid  inferences  concerning  surgical 
anatomy  as  a  whole  could  be  based  on  a  division  that  failed 
to  take  account  of  all  its  components.  No  valid  inferences 
concerning  the  nervous  system  as  a  whole  could  ignore  any 
part  of  that  system.    The  safeguard  against  such  error  is  to 


NOTES  23 

make  the  division  complete.  But  completeness  is  relative. 
Most  compositions  except  books  of  reference,  being  limited 
in  scope  and  purpose,  have  a  logical  division  if  they  are 
exhaustive  for  that  scope  and  that  piu*pose.  The  classi- 
fication of  notes  is  sufficient  if  it  omits  nothing  vital  to  its 
purpose,  if  it  gives  a  fair  view  so  far  as  it  goes. 

Moreover,  even  scientific  division  is  tentative.  Gray's 
division  of  surgical  anatomy  has  been  partly  superseded, 
partly  revised.  More  striking  changes  appear  in  the  newer 
divisions  of  physiology.  Much  more  is  division  flexible  for 
such  topics  as  college  students  are  called  on  to  present  in 
human  relations.  In  these  the  division  has  less  need  to  be 
complete  — •  if  indeed  it  can  be  complete  —  than  to  be  sug- 
gestive. In  such  subjects,  and  in  many  others,  a  student, 
since  no  one  expects  him  to  be  exhaustive,  may  divide  as  he 
chooses;  and  his  choice  of  headings  is  at  once  a  large  item  in 
the  pleasure  of  research  and  a  test  of  his  penetration  and 
grasp.  Nevertheless  he  cannot  achieve  these  without 
strictly  considering  what  points  his  limited  treatment  is 
fairly  bound  to  cover. 

The  second  and  third  logical  maxims  of  division  are  ob- 
vious safeguards  against  confusion.  If  one  heading  overlaps 
another  or  is  a  part  of  another  system,  the  classification 
breaks  down.  If  disease  were  divided  into  (1)  diseases  of 
the  nervous  system,  (2)  fevers,  (3)  diseases  of  the  intestines, 
etc.,  the  whole  matter  would  be  muddled;  for  typhoid  might 
be  put  under  both  (2)  and  (3)  and  perhaps  also  under  (1). 
If  our  population  be  divided  into  Democrats,  Republicans, 
Socialists,  Pacifists,  CathoUcs,  etc.,  the  division  beginning 
by  parties  goes  on  by  political  theories  and  then  by  rehgion. 
Absurd  £is  the  error  seems  in  such  glaring  cases,  it  is  common 
enough  to  be  watched  for.  It  'enters  most  easily,  perhaps, 
into  formal  or  conventional  divisions,  such  as  political,  social, 
and  economic.    Comimon  as  this  division  is,  it  is  neither  ex- 


24  GATHERING  INFORMATION 

haustive  nor  mutually  exclusive,  and  it  has  not  seldom  led 
to  confusion.  Practically,  the  second  and  third  logical 
maxims  might  be  summed  up  by  saying,  See  that  the  divi- 
sion is  real. 

(2)  Definition 

Another  process  involved  in  thinking  over  notes,  and  com- 
plementary to  division,  is  definition.  In  its  larger  sense, 
definition  is  the  interpreting  of  facts  by  generalization;  in 
particular,  it  is  a  generalizing  formula.  Throughout  an  in- 
vestigation we  gradually  define  our  ideas  of  the  whole  subject; 
in  particular  we  define  its  important  terms.  In  both  cases 
we  are  looking  for  the  ideas  behind  the  facts;  that  is,  we  are 
trying  to  see  the  facts  in  relation.  Classification  itself  involves 
definition ;  for  it  is  the  grouping  of  facts  under  ideas,  and  the 
regrouping  of  them  as  the  ideas  are  better  defined.  Division 
and  definition  go  hand  in  hand.  What  definition  is  essen- 
tially appears  most  clearly  in  the  logical  definition  of  a  sin- 
gle term.  As  we  all  learned  it  from  geometry,  a  definition 
is  such  a  formula  as  gives  both  (1)  the  genus  and  (2)  the 
differentia;  i.e.,  both  the  class  to  which  a  thing  belongs  and 
the  peculiarities  that  separate  it  from  other  members  of  that 
class,  both  the  likeness  and  the  difference,  both  the  relation 
and  the  individuality. 

(a)  A  cube  is  a  (genus)  polyhedron  (differentia)  bounded  by  six 
equal  squares. 

(6)  A  cathedral  is  a  (genus)  church  (differentia)  in  which  a 
bishop  has  his  seat. 

(c)  Faith  is  (genus)  certitude  (differentia)  with  respect  to 
matters  in  which  verification  is  unattainable. 

(d)  A  mayor  is   (differentia)   the  chief   (genus)    city  official. 

Long  or  short,  every  definition  has  these  two  parts. 

Thus  it  is  plain,  especially  from  example  (c),  that  defini- 
tion is  the  result  of  a  process  of  generalization.    After  much 


NOTES  25 

consideration,  faith  is  assigned  to  the  class  certitvde.  So 
^^ second  sight"  might  be  relegated  by  an  investigator  to  the 
class  hallucination,  or  Kalmucks  to  the  class  Tartars;  and 
another  investigator,  or  the  same  investigator  later,  might 
reach  a  different  generalization,  might  read  the  reported 
facts  differently.  For  even  the  search  for  information,  with- 
out intent  to  argue,  may  involve  dispute.  Any  generaliza- 
tion is  to  some  extent  an  interpretation;  and  concerning  the 
interpretation  of  facts  there  is  often  difference  of  opinion. 
But  though  a  generalization  may  not  be  insisted  on  without 
being  proved,  it  may  always  be  suggested.  The  suggestion 
will  be  acceptable  according  to  the  number  of  facts  it  seems 
to  cover  and  the  care  with  which  it  seems  to  consider  the 
differentia.  Moreover  generalization,  to  writer  and  reader 
alike,  gives  research  its  main  value.  The  pleasure  and  profit, 
the  education,  consist  not  in  seeing  a  number  of  facts,  but  in 
seeing  through  them,  in  discerning  their  relations.  Composi- 
tion is  not  mere  digest;  it  is  interpretation.  A  student's  inter- 
pretation is  not  final.  It  is  neither  meant  to  be  nor  expected 
to  be.  It  is, valuable  largely  in  proportion  as  it  opens  the 
subject  to  further  thought.  The  widening  of  knowledge 
goes  on  largely  by  the  progressive  correction  and  extension 
of  our  definitions.  Many  definitions  are  approximate  and 
temporary;  but  we  cannot  get  on  without  them.  They 
are  necessary  alike  for  our  own  thought  and  for  our  com- 
munication. They  measure  our  progress,  and  promote  the 
progress  of  those  whom  we  address,  in  the  perennial  quest. 

III.   PRESENTING  INFORMATION 

Certain  kinds  of  information  are  best  presented  in  classi- 
fied notes,  such  as  statistical  charts  or  tabular  views.  What 
can  be  grasped  best  in  such  analytical  form  will  gain  noth- 
ing by  consecutive  composition.    Statistics  of  population  or 


26  PRESENTING  INFORMATION 

trade,  for  instance,  which  would  be  tedious  and  confusing 
to  hear  or  read  consecutively,  are  readily  comprehended 
from  tables.  Important  as  charts  and  tables  are,  and  valu- 
able as  is  the  experience  of  using  them  and  of  making  them, 
they  may  be  excluded  from  consideration  here  because  they 
do  not  involve  composition.  Instead  of  being' consecutive, 
the  presentation  is  graphic.  The  process  properly  stops  with 
the  classification  of  the  notes. 

Similarly  may  be  ruled  out  all  presentation  that  is  merely 
enumerative,  whether  the  enumeration  be  chronological  as 
in  a  cyclopedia  biography,  or  topical  as  in  the  description  of 
a  process  of  manufacture.  In  such  cases  the  order,  being 
intended  for  reference,  is  fixed  beforehand;  and  fixed  order 
precludes  originality.  The  order  can  be  original  and  vital 
only  when  the  facts  are  to  be,  not  merely  exhibited,  but  ex- 
plained. Interpretation  is  vital  to  any  real  composition;  for 
composition  enters  when  we  try  to  tell  not  only  the  what, 
when,  and  where,  but  the  how  and  the  why.  These  latter 
questions  cannot  be  answered  by  tables  or  enumeration. 
They  demand  consecutive  order,  i.e.,  planning  by  para- 
graphs; and  this  must  be  done  afresh  for  each,  occasion.  For 
example,  not  only  military  strategy,  but  geography,  chemis- 
try, and  other  sciences  have  been  presented  afresh  over  and 
over  again  in  various  relations  to  the  European  War  of  1914. 
Information  in  this  sense  has  to  be  not  only  faithful  to  the 
facts,  but  adapted  to  the  audience,  the  space  or  time,  and 
the  occasion  or  particular  opportunity;  and  without  these 
problems  of  presentation  composition  for  information  has 
Uttle  value  or  interest. 

1.   Consecutive  Plan 

This  means  that  in  addition  to  the  classification  of  notes, 
which  is  arrangement  for  reference,  there  must  be  arrange- 
ment for  presentation.    Though  some  of  the  headings  may 


CONSECUTIVE  PLAN  27 

be  the  same  for  both,  the  former  will  not  suflBce  for  the  lat- 
ter; mere  classification  will  not  suffice  for  presentation. 
Composition  cannot  stop  with  analysis;  it  is  essentially 
synthesis,  or  building  up.  Analysis  is  mainly  for  the  writer 
or  speaker;  synthesis,  or  composition,  is  for  the  reader  or 
hearer.  To  be  conveyed,  information  must  be  arranged,  not 
merely  under  headings,  but  in  paragraphs  or  stages.  There 
must  be  an  order  that  is  easy  to  follow;  and  the  following  of 
information  is  insured  by  careful  leading  from  such  knowl- 
edge as  the  audience  has,  step  by  step,  to  the  full  realization 
desired.  Order,  the  vital  idea  in  such  arrangement,  means 
making  each  paragraph  prepare  for  the  next.  In  a  word,  the 
plan  for  presentation  is  a  plan  by  paragraphs.  Whether  a 
paragraph  shall  develop  one  heading  of  the  notes,  or  more  or 
less,  depends  on  the  scope  of  the  whole;  but  what  it  should 
always  develop  is  one  stage  of  progress.  Whether  it  fits  in 
the  classification  of  the  notes  is  immaterial;  what  is  vital  is 
that  it  should  fit  in  a  progressive  plan  of  composition.  Thus, 
though  the  note-headings  are  naturally  expressed  in  single 
words  or  phrases,  the  subject  of  each  prospective  paragraph 
had  better  be  expressed  in  a  sentence;  for  a  series  of  subject- 
sentences  far  better  forecasts  the  approach  and  direction, 
the  goal,  and,  between  these  two,  the  order  that  is  most 
likely  to  bring  out  the  main  relations. 

The  interest  and  value  of  so  organizing  the  material  of 
the  notes  that  a  hearer  or  reader  may  follow  it  easily,  step 
by  step,  are  plain  in  every  clear  work  of  information.  For 
example.  Chapter  II  of  Gifford  Pinchot's  Primer  of  Forestry;^ 
entitled  "  Trees  in  the  Forest,"  is  arranged  as  follows: 

Paragraph  1.  Brief  link  to  the  preceding  chapter. 

Paragraph  2.  Kinds  of  trees  differ  in  their  several  de- 
mands for  heat  and  moisture. 

*  Part  I,  "  The  Forest,"  U.  S.  Department  of  Agriculture,  Division 
of  Forestry,  Bulletin  24,  Washington,  1899. 


28  PRESENTING  INFORMATION 

Paragraph  3.  Heat  and  moisture  thus  largely  determine 
the  distribution  of  whole  families  of  trees,  both  over  the 
earth  in  general  and  even  within  small  areas. 

Paragraph  4.  Though  heat  and  moisture  often  act  to- 
gether, the  influence  of  moisture  is  more  conspicuous. 

Paragraph  5.  While  distribution  in  the  large  is  thus  de- 
termined by  heat  and  moisture,  the  life  of  an  individual 
tree,  or  even  of  a  species,  depends  more  on  whether  the 
tree  is  tolerant  or  intolerant,  i.e.,  on  whether  it  will  grow 
well  in  the  shade  or  demands  much  sunlight. 

Paragraph  6.  The  importance  to  forestry  of  the  demands 
of  a  tree  for  light  is  shown  by  many  instances. 

Paragraph  7.  The  demands  of  a  tree  for  light  may 
change  with  its  age,  its  place,  its  health. 

Paragraph  8.  Which  of  two  neighboring  trees  will  sur- 
vive may  depend  on  the  rate  of  growth,  since  the  one  that 
grows  more  quickly  may  cut  off  the  light  from  the  other. 

Paragraph  9.  Rate  of  growth  depends  on  soil,  which  in 
turn  depends  on  elevation. 

Paragraph  10.  Whether  a  species  grows  in  groups  or  as 
scattered  individuals  depends  (1)  on  whether  its  seed  is 
abundant,  and  (2)  on  whether  its  seed  is  heavy  or  light 
and  winged. 

Paragraph  11.  Thus  the  nature  of  the  seed  explains  in 
general  why  a  particular  forest  is  pure  or  mixed. 

Paragraph  12.  But  the  predominance  of  a  single  species 
may  be  due  also  to  its  thriving  on  less  heat  or  moisture  or 
light  than  is  demanded  by  other  species. 

Paragraph  13.  The  final  factor  in  the  struggle  of  trees 
for  the  ground  is  the  vigor  of  a  species  in  sprouting  from 
stumps. 

Heat,  moisture,  light,  soil,  seeds,  sprouts  —  the  question 
is  no  longer  which  of  these  should  come  under  which,  as  in 
the  notes,  but  which  should  come  after  which.    The  essence 


CONCRETE  DEVELOPMENT  29 

of  composition,  as  distinct  from  analysis,  is  order.  Some 
aspects  the  reader  can  understand  readily  from  his  general 
knowledge.  Begin  with  one  of  these.  Some  aspects  he 
cannot  miderstand  aright  until  he  has  grasped  others.  Put 
the  others  first.  Composing  by  paragraphs  means  begin- 
ning where  the  reader  is,  explaining  what  for  the  purpose 
he  must  know  next  before  he  can  go  on  surely,  showing 
how  this  opens  another  aspect,  and  so  leading  him  on  stage 
by  stage  to  the  final  interpretation.  If  the  chapter  above 
had  begun  with  tolerance  or  with  sprouts,  the  information 
could  not  have  been  so  readily  followed.  Toward  attain- 
ing clearness  through  order  the  best  practise  is  oral,  the 
speaking  of  the  information  consecutively  from  a  plan  by 
paragraphs  before  writing.  Oral  composition  will  test  the 
clearness  of  the  plan,  will  show  which  paragraphs  need 
further  instances  or  illustration  and  where  charts  will  serve 
better  than  words,  and  in  general  will  teach  adaptation  to 
a  particular  audience. 

2.  Concrete  Development 

Such  a  plan,  outlining  the  whole  course  of  the  composi- 
tion by  expressing  each  prospective  paragraph  in  a  sentence, 
shows  also  that  presentation  must  be  far  more  than  formu- 
lation. The  whole  composition  is  contained  in  the  plan  — 
contained,  but  not  conveyed.  It  is  there  only  for  the  com- 
poser; for  the  hearer  or  reader  each  stage  needs  to  be 
amplified.  Division  and  definition  in  gathering  material, 
consecutiveness  in  plan, — all  are  necessary;  but  all  together 
will  guide  information,  not  impart  it.  The  imparting  must 
be  done  for  each  paragraph  by  instances,  comparison,  con- 
trast, or  iteration,  or  by  any  combination  of  these  recognized 
means  of  dwelling  on  a  point  till  it  is  understood.  Instances, 
of  course,  will  be  supplied  by  the  notes;  comparison  and  con- 
trast must  be  adjusted  to  the  knowledge  of  the  audience; 


30  PRESENTING  INFORMATION 

iteration  is  most  effective  at  the  end  of  a  paragraph.  This, 
in  brief,  is  what  is  meant  by  amplification,  or  paragraph 
development.  But  all  these  means  must  be  animated  by  the 
intention  to  make  people  see.  The  sentence  that  sums  up  a 
definition  or  is  the  subject  of  a  paragraph  stands  in  the  com- 
poser's mind  for  a  body  of  details  accumulated  by  research 
and  interpreted;  in  the  reader's  mind  it  stands  as  yet  for 
nothing.  It  is  abstract.  Before  he  can  grasp  it,  he  must 
have  time  to  turn  it  over  in  his  mind,  to  see  some  of  the 
facts  that  it  interprets,  and  to  consider  it  in  the  light  of  his 
own  experience. 

This  need  of  fulness  for  comprehension  controls  the 
very  diction.  The  terms  used  must  be  not  only  clear  but 
interesting,  not  only  precise  but  vivid,  not  only  specific 
but  concrete.  Bare  facts,  as  we  call  them  in  protest,  are 
unsatisfying.  They  must  be  clothed,  so  to  speak,  to  be- 
come visible.  The  facts  are  all  in  the  notes,  and  have 
been  verified  and  classified.  In  order  to  be  conveyed,  they 
have  been  arranged  consecutively.  For  each  stage  of  this 
arrangement  there  is  available  a  fund  of  specific  instances. 
Now  these  instances  should  not  be  merely  rehearsed,  not 
baldly  enumerated,  but  so  stated  as  to  kindle  imagination. 
The  plan  of  presentation  makes  the  reader  follow;  the 
details  should  make  him  see.  Real  presentation,  that  is, 
always  involves  more  than  consecutive  rehearsal  of  the 
notes.    If  the  facts  are  left  bare,  the  reader  is  left  cold. 

Thus  the  facts  of  scientific  investigation  are,  as  we  say  in 
a  phrase  full  of  suggestion  to  the  student  of  composition, 
brought  home.  The  following  paragraphs  tell  how  a  glacier 
lake  is  formed.  The  writer  has  already  informed  us  in  his 
preceding  paragraphs:  (1)  that  glacier  lakes  are  widely  dis- 
tributed through  the  Sierras,  (2)  that  their  invariable  ar- 
rangement in  series  reveals  the  geological  history  of  this 
part  of  the  earth's  crust,  and  (3)  how  this  history  may  be 


CONCRETE  DEVELOPMENT  31 

read  in  instance  after  instance.     He  now  brings  the  infor- 
mation home  by  presenting  a  typical  case  to  the  imagination. 

When  a  mountain  lake  is  born,  —  when,  like  a  young  eye,  it 
first  opens  to  the  Ught,  —  it  is  an  irregular,  expressionless  crescent, 
inclosed  in  banks  of  rock  and  ice,  —  bare,  glaciated  rock  on  the 
lower  side,  the  rugged  snout  of  a  glacier  on  the  upper.  In  this 
condition  it  remains  for  many  a  year,  until  at  length,  toward  the 
end  of  some  auspicious  cluster  of  seasons,  the  glacier  recedes  beyond 
the  upper  margin  of  the  basin,  leaving  it  open  from  shore  to  shore 
for  the  first  time,  thousands  of  years  after  its  conception  beneath 
the  glacier  that  excavated  its  basin.  The  landscape,  cold  and  bare, 
is  reflected  in  its  pine  depths;  the  winds  ruffle  its  glassy  surface, 
and  the  sun  fills  it  with  throbbing  spangles,  while  its  waves  begin 
to  lap  and  murmur  around  its  leafless  shores,  —  sun-spangles  dur- 
ing the  day  and  reflected  stars  at  night  its  only  flowers,  the  winds 
and  the  snow  its  only  visitors.  Meanwhile,  the  glacier  continues 
to  recede;  and  numerous  rills,  still  younger  than  the  lake  itself, 
bring  down  glacier-mud,  sand-grains,  and  pebbles,  giving  rise  to 
margin-rings  and  plats  of  soil.  To  these  fresh  soil-beds  comes 
many  a  waiting  plant.  First,  a  hardy  carex  with  arching  leaves 
and  a  spike  of  brown  flowers;  then,  as  the  seasons  grow  warmer, 
and  the  soil-beds  deeper  and  wider,  other  sedges  take  their  appointed 
places;  and  these  are  joined  by  blue  gentians,  daisies,  dodecatheons, 
violets,  honeyworts,  and  many  a  lowly  moss.  Shrubs  also  hasten 
in  time  to  the  new  gardens,  —  kalmia  with  its  glossy  leaves  and 
purple  flowers,  the  arctic  wiUow,  making  soft  woven  carpets, 
together  with  the  heathy  bryanthus  and  cassiope,  the  fairest  and 
dearest  of  them  all.  Insects  now  emrich  the  air;  frogs  pipe  cheerily 
in  the  shallows,  soon  followed  by  the  ouzel,  which  is  the  first  bird 
to  visit  a  glacier  lake,  as  the  sedge  is  the  first  of  plants. 

So  the  young  lake  grows  in  beauty,  becoming  more  and  more 
humanly  lovable  from  century  to  century.  Groves  of  aspen  spring 
up,  and  hardy  pines,  and  the  Hemlock  Spruce,  until  it  is  richly 
overshadowed  and  embowered.  But  while  its  shores  are  being 
enriched,  the  soil-beds  creep  out  with  incessant  growth,  contract- 
ing its  area,  while  the  lighter  mud-particles  deposited  on  the  bot- 


32  PRESENTING  INFORMATION 

torn  cause  it  to  grow  constantly  shallower,  until  at  length  the  last 
remnant  of  the  lake  vanishes,  —  closed  forever  in  ripe  and  natural 
old  age.  And  now  its  feeding  stream  goes  winding  on  without 
halting  through  the  new  gardens  and  groves  that  have  taken  its 
place.  —  John  Muir,  The  Mountains  of  California,  Chapter  VI, 
paragraphs  ix  and  x. 

I  now  understand  a  glacier  lake  because  I  can  see  it. 
Though  I  may  never  have  seen  one  for  myself,  I  have  been 
made  to  see  one  in  imagination  by  the  writer's  use  of  con- 
crete terms,  that  is  of  words  expressing  things  that  I  have 
actually  seen.  The  facts  are  not  merely  indicated;  the  ideas 
are  not  merely  formulated;  the  information  is  fully  conveyed. 

By  the  same  concrete  appeal  to  the  imagination  we  are  in- 
formed that  a  Japanese  city  remains,  in  spite  of  the  so-called 
adoption  of  western  civilization,  outwardly  frail,  small,  tem- 
porary in  architecture,  and  quiet  in  habit.  These  facts  can- 
not be  quite  conveyed  to  the  western  mind  by  statistics; 
they  need  to  be,  not  merely  rehearsed,  but  visualized. 

A  Japanese  city  is  still,  as  it  was  ten  centuries  ago,  little  more 
than  a  wilderness  of  wooden  sheds, — picturesque,  indeed,  as  paper 
lanterns  are,  but  scarcely  less  frail.  And  there  is  no  great  stir 
and  noise  anywhere — no  heavy  traffic,  no  booming  and  rumbling, 
no  furious  haste.  In  Tokyo  itself  you  may  enjoy,  if  you  wish,  the 
peace  of  a  country  village.  This  want  of  visible  or  audible  signs 
of  the  new-foimd  force  which  is  now  menacing  the  markets  of  the 
West  and  changing  the  maps  of  the  far  East  gives  one  a  queer,  I 
might  even  say  a  weird  feeling.  It  is  almost  the  sensation  received 
when,  after  climbing  through  miles  of  silence  to  reach  some  Shinto 
shrine,  you  find  voidness  only  and  solitude,^ — an  elfish  empty  httle 
wooden  structure,  mouldering  in  shadows  a  thousand  years  old. 

Lafcadio  Hearn,  The  Genius  of  Japanese  Civilization,  para- 
graph v;  in  Kokoro:   Hints  and  Echoes  of  Japanese  Inner  Life. 

Information,  then,  is  a  large  and  fruitful  task.  It  de- 
mands discrimination  and  system  in  research,  order  in  pres- 


CURRENT  FORMS  OF  PRESENTATION  33 

entation,  and  that  concreteness  without  which  facts  can 
rarely  be  brought  to  bear  upon  persons. 

3.  Cxxrrent  Forms  of  Presentation 

a.    SCIENTIFIC   REPORTS 

In  the  two  cardinal  matters  of  carrying  the  reader  along 
by  definite  stages  and  of  making  him  see  by  concrete  detail, 
the  actual  current  forms  of  presentation  show  instructive 
differences.  Reports  of  scientific  investigation,  if  they  are 
addressed  to  experts  in  the  particular  subject,  do  not  usually 
go  much  beyond  classification.  They  are  compressed  and 
tabular  in  form,  as  they  are  technical  in  language,  because 
their  object  is  limited  to  clear  exhibition  and  ready  reference. 
Such  is  the  report  of  an  assay  of  ore,  or  of  a  chemical  analy- 
sis of  drinking  water.  In  these  cases  a  report  is  hardly  more 
than  a  classified  set  of  notes.  But  if  the  report  is  addressed 
to  people  little  acquainted  with  the  particular  field  of  science, 
the  presentation  must  always  go  beyond  exhibition.  Be- 
sides classification  it  must  have  such  plan  as  will  convey  the 
information  in  effective  order.  Such  is  the  report  of  a  min- 
ing engineer  to  business  men  who  wish  to  know  whether  to 
invest  in  a  certain  property.  The  more  remote,  miscella- 
neous, or  inexperienced  the  audience,  the  more  important 
and  interesting  are  the  problems  of  consecutive  organiza- 
tion and  concrete  realization.  Thus  the  findings  of  the 
Merchant  Marine  Commission  in  1905  were  put  into  such 
.form  as  might  enlighten,  not  only  Congressmen  unfamiliar 
with  shipping  and  trade  routes,  but,  beyond  them,  a  large 
part  of  the  public.  And  since  this  report  turned  out  to  be 
too  bulky  and  too  miscellaneous  for  the  latter  purpose,  se- 
lected portions  of  its  material  were  organized,  with  material 
from  other  sources,  in  many  speeches  and  magazine  articles 
composed  specifically  to  instruct  the  public.    The  same  dif- 


34  PRESENTING  INFORMATION 

ference  in  the  degree  of  organization,  or  consecutiveness, 
according  to  the  purpose  and  the  audience  is  seen  in  the 
pubUcations  of  the  federal  bureaus.  Thus  the  Department 
of  Agriculture  issues  both  analytical  or  tabular  reports  of 
statistics  concerning  soils,  seeds,  fertilizers,  etc.,  correspond- 
ing in  form  to  a  student's  classified  notes  of  research,  and 
also  consecutive  essays  in  which  the  same  material  is  organ- 
ized for  the  comprehension  of  lay  readers.^ 

The  need  of  concreteness,  hardly  less  important  than  the 
need  of  consecutiveness,  is  met  more  and  more  by  pictures. 
As  the  report  of  a  mining  engineer  is  accompanied  by  maps 
and  specimens,  so  the  Pittsburgh  Survey  of  social  conditions 
presents  photographs.  With  the  rapid  advance  in  the  proc- 
esses of  photography  and  reproduction  facts  have  been 
brought  home  by  pictures  more  and  more,  especially  in 
newspapers  and  magazines,  till  it  may  be  argued  that  for 
purposes  of  information  there  is  little  room  left  for  descrip- 
tive concreteness  of  language.  As  modem  scenery  banished 
from  the  drama  that  descriptive  exuberance  habitual  on  the 
old  bare  stage,  so  it  may  seem  at  first  thought  as  if  for  in- 
formation, too,  the  picture  had  supplanted  the  vivid  word. 
But  a  rereading  of  the  passages  above  (pages  31,  32)  reminds 
us  that  concreteness  of  language,  with  or  without  pictures, 
has  superior  carrying  power.  Certainly  pictures  should  be 
used  —  and  not  abused  —  wherever  they  are  available;  and 
still  more  should  diagrams.  It  is  foolish  to  attempt  in 
words  anything  like  a  ground  plan  or  front  elevation.  Words 
can  only  suggest  shapes;  they  cannot  compete  in  this  field 
with  pictures;  but  their  field  is  so  much  wider  that  descrip- 
tive concreteness,  suggesting  not  only  visual  images,  but 
sound  and  motion  and  especially  emotion,  can  never  be 
superseded, 

1  See  above,  page  27. 


CURRENT  FORMS  OF  PRESENTATION  35 

h.  NEWS  REPORTS 

Descriptive  concreteness  is  accepted  as  a  merit  in  news 
reports,  and  even  gives  to  certain  newspapers  a  recognized 
distinction  of  style.  In  this  aspect  comparison  of  two  news 
stories  of  the  same  happening  is  very  instructive.  But  con- 
creteness is  more  common  in  special  stories  or  departments. 
For  the  ordinary  run  of  news  the  account  is  specific,  indeed, 
but  not  often  concrete;  it  tells  us  where  a  man  lives  and  pre- 
cisely when  and  where  he  fell,  but  it  hardly  has  time  or  space 
to  visuaUze  either  him  or  his  fall.  In  composition  a  news 
report  is  rather  rigidly  conventional.  It  always  begins  with 
the  point,  gist,  or  essence  of  the  whole  in  its  heading,  supple- 
ments or  slightly  expands  this  summary  in  the  sub-heading, 
tells  the  important  aspects  in  the  first  section,  begins  to 
specify  details  in  the  second  section,  and  so  on,  according  to 
the  assigned  space.  This  plan  is  adapted,  of  course,  to  its 
particular  purpose,  and  the  execution  of  its  parts  demands 
technical  skill;  but  as  a  whole  it  is  too  rigid  to  give  room  for 
composition. 

Room  for  composition  is  given  abundantly  in  supplement 
articles,  interviews,  and  reviews  of  recent  progress  in  com- 
merce, finance,  war,  etc.  For  in  any  of  these  the  form  of 
the  whole  may  be  at  the  choice  of  the  writer  and  is  likely  to 
be  a  main  element  of  his  success.  He  may  stand  or  fall 
according  to  his  plan.  Is  his  review  of  the  money  market 
merely  chronological?  Then  it  will  not  bear  comparison 
with  one  that  is  interpretive,  still  less  with  one  that  is  sug- 
gestive. The  outward  sign  and  means  of  such  arrangement 
of  facts  as  lets  us  see  through  them  and  beyond  is  consecutive 
plan  by  paragraphs.  Such  planning  should  give  point  even 
to  an  interview  without  hindering  free  use  of  description  and 
dialogue.    For  an  extended  article  on  an  assigned  topic  it  is 


36  PRESENTING  INFORMATION 

a  well  recognized  essential,  and  such  articles  in  their  condi- 
tions and  their  demands  are  more  nearly  than  any  other 
newspaper  writing  hke  college  composition;  for  their  success 
depends  in  the  same  measure  on  skilful  consecutiveness  and 
vivid  concreteness. 


CHAPTER  II 
DISCUSSION 

Interpretation,  which  enters  more  or  less  into  all  con- 
veying of  information,  becomes  the  main  object  in  discus- 
sion. Discussion  seeks  less  to  convey  facts  than  to  bring  out 
from  them  certain  ideas.  The  difference  is  only  in  degree. 
There  is  no  boundary  between  information  and  discussion; 
the  latter  is  merely  larger,  including  the  former  and,  in  the 
other  direction  extending  so  far  as  to  include  also  argument. 
Discussion  is  thus  the  general  term  for  such  composition  as 
may,  on  the  one  hand,  convey  information  or,  on  the  other 
hand,  go  so  far  as  to  urge  action,  but  with  or  without  these, 
and  with  whatever  proportion  of  either,  seeks  the  signifi- 
cance or  imderlying  truth.  We  are  considering  here,  not 
conversation,  which  has  little  composition  and  finds  its  pecu- 
liar value  precisely  in  its  freedom,  nor  debate,  which  on  the 
contrary  is  composed  rather  formally,  but  such  discussion, 
whether  oral  or  written,  as  is  uninterrupted  and  consecutive. 
Such  are  most  newspaper  editorials,  most  magazine  articles 
on  current  topics  of  poUtics  and  sociology,  many  essays  in 
criticism,  and  much  of  the  popular  exposition  of  science. 
Exposition,  indeed,  well  describes  this  sort  of  writing  and 
speaking  if  the  term  be  used  in  its  ordinary,  general  sense; 
but  since  most  text-books  use  it  in  a  restrictive  sense  that 
excludes  argument,  the  field  is  covered  better,  perhaps,  by 
the  wider  word  discussion.  College  composition  of  this  sort 
is  most  commonly  related  to  studies  in  sociology,  politics, 
and  Uterature;  but  it  has  shown  some  of  its  best  results  in 
philosophy,  and,  for  advanced  students,  it  is  useful  also  in 

37 


38         THE  TECHNIC  OF  PLAN  AND  PARAGRAPHS 

history  and  in  the  natural  sciences.  By  discussion,  then,  we 
mean  any  consecutive  writing  or  speaking  that  aims  to  bring 
out  ideas  and  promote  our  grasp  of  truth. 


I.  THE  TECHNIC  OF  PLAN  AND  PARAGRAPHS 

To  bring  out  ideas,  composition  must  be  more  closely  knit 
than  for  mere  information.  Interpretation,  so  soon  as  it  be- 
comes the  main  object,  demands  stricter  organization.  Both 
the  whole  and  each  of  its  parts  need  to  be  planned  according 
to  the  logical  principles  of  composition:  unity,  coherence, 
and  emphasis. 

1.  Unity 

Unity  means  having  a  point;  it  means  presenting,  not  only 
details,  but  a  whole;  it  means  directing  all  the  aspects  chosen 
for  presentation  toward  one  interpretation.  For  the  reader, 
imity  means  seeing  through  many  things  to  one  result;  for 
the  speaker  or  writer,  it  means  interpreting  many  things  by 
one  idea.  This  idea,  to  which  the  whole  composition  is  di- 
rected, may  be  a  proposition,  and  must  be  so  if  the  discus- 
sion as  a  whole  is  meant  to  be  an  argument.  Women  should 
vote.  The  high-school  course  should  provide  vocational  educa- 
tion. Argument,  that  is,  demands  unity  in  its  strictest  form. 
The  less  argumentative  the  discussion,  the  less  need  to  con- 
fine the  whole  within  a  single  proposition;  but  no  discussion 
can  be  consecutive  without  leading  to  a  goal.  Until  the 
whole  body  of  facts,  opinions,  and  suggestions  has  been  fo- 
cused on  a  single  result,  until  a  single  idea  emerges  from  it 
all,  the  composer  is  not  ready.  He  cannot  expect  his  audi- 
ence to  see  through  what  he  does  not  yet  see  through  for 
himself.  He  cannot  discuss  his  subject  until  he  knows  what 
it  all  means.  Indeed,  he  cannot  be  said  to  have  found  his 
subject  imtil  he  has  found  his  conclusion. 


COHERENCE  39 

That  the  single  point,  or  conclusion,  of  the  whole  discus- 
sion shall  be  reducible  to  a  sentence,  though  often  desirable, 
is  not,  except  in  argmnent,  necessary.  But  precisely  this  is 
necessary,  in  any  sort  of  discussion,  for  each  paragraph. 
The  subject  of  a  paragraph  in  discussion  is  a  sentence.  This 
does  not  enforce  any  particular  type  of  paragraph;  still  less 
does  it  hamper  expression.  Paragraph  unity  applies  not  to 
style,  but  to  structure,  not  to  the  wording  of  the  finished 
form,  but  to  the  planning  of  a  distinct  stage  of  thought.  It 
means  fixing  attention  on  one  thing  at  a  time.  That  each 
paragraph  shall  have  a  single  point  necessitates,  for  pur- 
poses of  discussion,  that  each  paragraph  shall  be  controlled 
by  a  definite  sentence. 

2.  Coherence 

For  this  strict  unity  of  each  paragraph  is  a  condition  of 
consecutiveness  in  the  whole  composition.  It  focuses  atten- 
tion for  the  purpose  of  guiding  thought.  In  order  to  follow 
the  progress,  the  reader  must  know  just  where  he  is  at  each 
stage.  We  progress  in  discussion,  not  merely  from  topic  to 
topic,  but  from  proposition  to  proposition.  An  idea,  being 
an  inference  or  interpretation,  cannot  be  defined  unmistak- 
ably by  any  form  of  words  short  of  a  sentence.  What  dis- 
cussion seeks  is  a  progress  of  ideas.  Thus  in  discussion  the 
subject  of  a  paragraph  must  be  a  sentence  because  the  plan 
of  the  whole  must  be  a  series  of  sentences;  and  vice  versa,  for 
the  rule  works  both  ways.  Paragraph  imity  is  less  an  end 
in  itself  than  a  means  to  the  coherence  of  the  whole. 

Thus  to  say  that  discussion  demands  stricter  coherence 
amounts  practically  to  saying  that  it  demands  stricter  para- 
graphs. The  advance  from  the  conveying  of  information  to 
that  further  interpretation  which  is  involved  in  the  building 
up  of  ideas  is  marked  by  the  higher  organization  of  para- 
graphs.    The  paragraph,  always  a  unit  of  composition,  a 


40        THE  TECHNIC  OF  PLAN  AND  PARAGRAPHS 

definite  part,  becomes  in  discussion  more  strictly  a  part  in  a 
certain  place.  As  the  whole  depends  more  on  consecutive- 
ness  of  plan,  each  part  will  be  adjusted  more  carefully  to  its 
place  in  that  plan.  The  more  argumentative  the  discussion, 
the  more  strictly  each  paragraph  must  be  adjusted  as  a  stage 
or  step  in  the  logical  progress,  a  link  in  a  chain;  but  any  sort 
of  consecutive  discussion,  however  informal  or  popular  its 
diction,  demands  logical  organization  of  paragraphs. 

Coherence,  then,  which  means  in  general  leading  a  hearer 
or  reader  from  where  he  is  now  to  where  you  wish  him  to 
arrive,  means  technically  three  things:  (1)  planning  by  para- 
graphs, (2)  regulating  each  paragraph  by  a  definite  prop- 
osition, (3)  adjusting  each  paragraph  to  fit.  The  first  is 
prospective  and  general.  Any  composition  in  this  field  is 
thus  blocked  out  in  the  composer's  mind  before  it  is  spoken 
or  written  at  all.  A  paragraph  is  primarily  not  a  group  of 
sentences,  but  an  idea  or  thought  which  is  to  be  developed  in 
a  certain  connection.  The  second  is  retrospective.  After  the 
paragraph  has  been  sketched,  whether  orally  or  in  writing, 
its  unity  is  tested  by  seeing  whether  it  obeys  a  single  con- 
trolling sentence,  that  is  whether  it  fills  its  place.  The  test 
will  reveal  both  the  soundness  of  the  paragraph  and  the 
soundness  of  the  whole  plan,  each  in  relation  to  the  other. 
The  third  process  is  the  final  revision.  It  consists  in  making 
the  relation  of  each  paragraph  explicit,  that  is  in  seeing  that 
the  connection  is  marked  by  sufficient  connectives. 

a.   PLANNING   BY  PARAGRAPHS 

Huxley's  popular  lecture  entitled  A  Piece  of  Chalk  ^  aimed 
to  give  its  hearers  a  sense  of  geologic  time.  Its  imifying  idea 
is  to  teach  us  how  to  read  in  the  successive  layers  of  the 
earth's  crust  geologic  history.    This  idea,  though  it  is  not 

*  Published  1868,  in  Lay  Sermons,  Addresses  and  Reviews. 


COHERENCE  41 

embodied  in  a  single  proposition  for  proof,  may  be  summed 
as  follows:  Scientific  analysis  of  chalk  shows  that  the  crust 
of  the  earth  was  formed,  layer  by  layer,  through  ages.  There 
is  the  goal,  the  point  at  which  the  audience  is  to  arrive.  By 
what  stages?  That  is  the  first  question  of  coherence.  From 
Huxley's  finished  exposition  it  is  easy  to  see  clearly,  though 
without  his  notes  for  speaking  we  cannot,  of  course,  repre- 
sent precisely,  how  the  lecture  was  planned  in  advance. 
The  earlier  stages  were  to  set  forth  the  common  occurrence 
of  chalk,  first  right  there,  under  the  feet  of  the  audience, 
then  more  widely  in  England,  and  then  throughout  large 
portions  of  Europe  and  Asia.  What  is  this  chalk?  The 
questions  thus  provoked  were  to  be  answered  by  the  next 
stages:  first,  by  simple  chemical  analysis  showing  that  chalk 
is  carbonate  of  lime,  then  by  simple  physical  analysis  show- 
ing that  it  is  largely  composed  of  globigerinae.  But  what 
are  globigerinaef  Again  the  question  provoked  was  to  be 
answered  by  careful  stages.  These  tiny  deposits  were  to  be 
shown  as  the  result,  not  of  inorganic  processes  such  as 
crystallization,  but  of  organic  life.  Here  ends  the  first 
chapter,  or  section.  The  rest  of  the  exposition  was  evidently 
planned  just  as  clearly  by  paragraphs.  From  beginning  to 
end  the  lecturer  planned  definite  stages  by  which  his  hearers 
were  to  advance  farther  and  farther  until  they  realized  the 
desired  significance. 

Coherence  consists  essentially  in  choosing  a  starting-point 
within  the  experience  and  ideas  of  the  audience  and  leading 
from  those  ideas  to  others  and  yet  others,  steadily  widen- 
ing the  view  until  it  commands  the  whole  desired  outlook. 
Huxley  literally  began  where  his  audience  was.  "If  a  well 
were  sunk,"  he  says,  "at  our  feet  in  the  midst  of  the  city  of 
Norwich,  the  diggers  would  very  soon  find  themselves  at 
work  in  that  white  substance,  almost  too  soft  to  be  called 
rock,  with  which  we  are  all  familiar  as  'chalk.'"    His  last 


42   THE  TECHNIC  OF  PLAN  AND  PARAGRAPHS 

paragraph  contains  the  following  passage,  which  in  itself 
almost  describes  what  is  essential  in  coherence: 

A  small  beginning  has  led  us  to  a  great  ending.  If  I  were  to 
put  the  bit  of  chalk  with  which  we  started  into  the  hot  but  obscure 
flame  of  burning  hydrogen,  it  would  presently  shine  Uke  the  sun. 
It  seems  to  me  that  this  physical  metamorphosis  is  no  false  image 
of  what  has  been  the  result  of  our  subjecting  it  to  a  jet  of  fervent, 
though  nowise  briUiant,  thought  to-night.  It  has  become  luminous, 
and  its  clear  rays,  penetrating  the  abyss  of  the  remote  past,  have 
brought  within  our  ken  some  stages  of  the  evolution  of  the  earth. 

Coherence,  then,  means  taking  hold  aright  and  going  on 
mitil  the  audience  is  led  to  the  goal.  A  very  good  example 
of  progressive  plan  for  this  purpose  is  the  Areopagus  address 
of  St.  Paul  as  outlined  in  Acts  xvii.  22-31. 

h.   REGULATING  EACH  PARAGRAPH  BY  A  SENTENCE 

Analysis  of  any  systematic  exposition,  whatever  the  sub- 
ject, will  reveal  a  similar  prospective  plan  for  coherence. 
When  the  discussion  has  been  developed  orally  on  these  lines, 
or  written  out  in  a  first  draft,  the  coherence  may  be  tested 
by  summmg  up  each  paragraph  in  a  sentence.  Huxley's 
lecture  as  it  appears  in  print  ^  shows  that  the  following 
sentences,  expressed  or  impUed,  underlie  the  paragraphs: 

Huxley^ s  A  Piece  of  Chalky  Plan  by  Paragraphs 

1.  Chalk  enters  into  the  composition  of  many  counties  of  Eng- 

land. 

2.  It  occurs  also  throughout  large  parts  of  Europe  and  Asia. 

3.  It  is  widely  recognizable  in  geological  contours,  especially  of 

cliffs  and  mountains. 

4.  Thus  analysis  of  chalk  will  reveal  much  of  the  composition  of 

the  earth  and  much  of  its  physical  history. 

1  In  some  reprints  of  this  lecture  the  paragraphs  are  blurred  by  false 
spacing. 


COHERENCE  43 

6.  Chemically  chalk  is  carbonate  of  lime. 

6.  Carbonate  of  hme  is  familiar  in  a  variety  of  forms:  limestones, 

stalactites,  the  "fm:"  in  a  kettle,  etc. 

7.  Physically  chalk  is  composed  of  granules  and  other  bodies. 

8.  The  other  bodies  show  a  calcareous  fabric,  of  which  the  com- 

monest form  is  called  globigerina. 

9.  Globigerinae  seem  from  their  form  to  be  products,  not  of  min- 

eral aggregation,  but  of  vital  activity. 

10.  That  they  are  actually  animal  organisms  has  been  shown  by 

the  fact  that  the  mud  brought  from  the  bottom  of  the 
ocean  often  contains  exactly  similar  skeletons. 

11.  The  specimens  that  proved  this  were  brought  up  by  those 

soundings  for  the  first  Atlantic  cable  which  gave  us   a 
survey  of  the  ocean  bottom. 

12.  The  mud  of  the  ocean  bottom  analyzed  chemically  is  found  to 

be  largely  carbonate  of  lime;  analyzed  physically,  to  con- 
tain innumerable  globigerinae. 

13.  This  animal  organism,  though  of  the  simplest,  has  a  distinct 

and  unmistakable  skeleton. 

14.  Further   analysis   and   scientific   inference   show   that   these 

creatures  Uve  and  die  where  they  are  found,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea. 

15.  Therefore  chalk  is  the  dried  mud  of  an  ancient  deep  sea. 

16.  The  theory  that  chalk  and  deep-sea  mud  are  physically  iden- 

tical is  confirmed  by  the  piiesence  in  both  of  coccoliths 
and  coccospheres. 

17.  This  theory,  Hke  the  theory  of  the  origin  of  the  pyramids,  is 

confirmed  by  collateral  evidence. 

18.  Such  collateral  evidence  is  the  presence  in  chalk  cHffs  of  the 

fossils  of  shellfish  known  to  be  confined  to  the  sea. 

19.  These  fossils  and  others  give  us  some  idea  of  the  time  required 

to  form  the  chalky  mud. 

The  remaining  paragraphs  (20-33)  show  the  same  dis- 
tinct stages  and  the  same  steady  coherence.  Such  an  analy- 
sis of  the  finished  work,  paragraph  by  paragraph,  constitutes 
a  faithful  accoimt  of  the  logical  progress  and  reveals  the 


44    THE  TECHNIC  OF  PLAN  AND  PARAGRAPHS 

studious  care  for  coherence.  But  it  is  still  more  useful  as 
applied  to  one's  own  rough  draft  in  order  to  revise  both  the 
unity  of  each  paragraph  and  the  coherence  of  the  whole. 
Thus  applied,  it  is  at  once  the  simplest  and  the  most  prac- 
tical means  of  revision.  That  a  given  stage,  for  instance,  as 
worked  out  demands  two  paragraphs  instead  of  the  one 
foreseen,  or  that  on  the  contrary  it  turns  out  to  be,  not 
really  a  stage,  but  only  a  link,  the  regulating  of  each  para- 
graph by  a  sentence  will  show  clearly;  that  is,  it  will  deter- 
mine the  actual  paragraphs  as  different  in  some  cases  from 
those  that  were  foreseen. 

C.    ADJUSTING   EACH   PAKAGRAPH  TO   FIT 

Thus  it  is  practically  prerequisite  to  the  final  revision, 
which  consists  in  making  the  connection  explicit  by  words 
of  reference.  The  connection  must  be  there  before  it  can  be 
shown  in  words;  but  that  it  needs  to  be  shown  is  clear  from 
the  care  taken  by  experienced  writers  with  their  connectives. 
Huxley's  adjustments  can  be  seen  in  the  following  analysis 
of  the  opening  and  the  close  of  each  of  his  first  ten  para- 
graphs: 

Huxley^s  A  Piece  of  Chalk,  Adjustments  at  the  Opening  and 
the  Close  of  Paragraphs 

1.  Chalk  enters  into  1.  "If  a  well  were  sunk  at  our  feet  in 
the  composition  of  many  the  midst  of  the  city  of  Norwich,  the 
counties  of  England.  diggers  would  very  soon  find  themselves 

at  work  in  that  white  substance,  almost 
too  soft  to  be  called  rock,  with  which  we 
are  all  familiar  as  'chalk'  (introduction). 
Not  only  here,  but  over  the  whole  county 
of  Norfolk,  the  well-sinker  might  carry 
his  shaft  down  many  hundred  feet 
without  coming  to  the  end  of  the  chalk 
{partial  announcement  of  the  paragraph 


COHERENCE 


45 


2.  Chalk  occurs  also 
throughout  large  parts 
of  Europe  and  Asia. 


3.  Chalk  is  widely 
recognizable  in  geolog- 
ical contours,  especially 
of  cliffs  and  mountains. 


4.  Thus  analysis  of 
chalk  will  reveal  much 
of  the  composition  of  the 
earth  and  much  of  its 
physical  history. 


subject,  expanded  in  the  succeeding  sen- 
tences). ...  it  enters  into  the  very 
foundation  of  all  the  south-eastern  coun- 
ties {paragraph  close)." 

2.  *' Attaining,  as  it  does  in  some 
places,  a  thickness  of  more  than  a  thou- 
sand feet,  the  English  chalk  must  be 
admitted  to  be  a  mass  of  considerable 
magnitude  (link).  Nevertheless  it  covers 
but  an  insignificant  portion  of  the  whole 
area  occupied  by  the  chalk  formation  of 
the  globe  (announcement  of  the  paragraph 
subject).  .  .  .  the  area  of  which  would 
.  .  .  exceed  that  of  the  largest  existing 
inland  sea  — the  Mediterranean  (para- 
graph close)." 

3.  "Thus  the  chalk  is  no  unimportant 
element  in  the  masonry  of  the  earth's 
crust  (link),  and  it  impresses  a  peculiar 
stamp  ...  on  the  scenery  (announcement 
of  the  paragraph  subject)  .  .  .  chalk  has 
its  share  in  the  formation  of  some  of 
the  most  venerable  of  mountain  ranges, 
such  as  the  Lebanon  (paragraph  close)." 

4.  "What  is  this  wide-spread  compo- 
nent of  the  surface  of  the  earth,  and 
whence  did  it  come?  You  may  think 
this  no  very  hopeful  inquiry.  You  may 
not  unnaturally  suppose  that  the  at- 
tempt to  solve  such  problems  as  these 
can  lead  to  no  result  save  that  of  entan- 
gling the  inquirer  in  vague  speculations, 
incapable  of  refutation  and  of  verifica- 
tion. If  such  were  really  the  case,  I 
should  have  selected  some  other  subject 
than  a  piece  of  chalk  for  my  discourse. 
But  in  truth,  after  much  deliberation,  1 


46        THE  TECHNIC  OF  PLAN  AND  PARAGRAPHS 


5.   Chemically   chalk 
is  carbonate  of  lime. 


6.  Carbonate  of  lime 
is  familiar  in  a  variety  of 
forms:  Umestones,  sta- 
lactites, the  "fur"  in  a 
kettle,  etc. 


7.  Physically  chalk  is 
composed  of  granules 
and  other  bodies. 


have  been  unable  to  think  of  any  topic 
which  would  so  well  enable  me  to  lead 
you  to  see  how  solid  is  the  foundation 
upon  which  some  of  the  most  startling 
conclusions  of  physical  science  rest  (link). 
A  great  chapter  of  the  history  of  the 
world  is  written  in  the  chalk  (announce- 
ment of  the  paragraph  subject),  ...  I 
propose  that  we  now  set  to  work  to 
spell  that  story  out  together  (paragraph 
close).'' 

5.  "We  all  know  that  if  we  'burn' 
chalk  the  result  is  quicklime.  Chalk,  in 
fact,  is  a  compound  of  carbonic  acid  gas 
and  lime  (announcement  of  the  paragraph 
subject).  .  .  .  chalk  is  almost  wholly 
composed  of  'carbonate  of  lime*  (para- 
graph close)." 

6.  "It  is  desirable  for  us  to  start  from 
the  knowledge  of  this  fact,  though  it 
may  not  seem  to  help  us  very  far  towards 
what  we  seek  (link).  For  carbonate  of 
lime  is  a  widely  spread  substance  and  is 
met  with  under  very  various  conditions 
(announcement  of  the  paragraph  subject), 
...  for  anything  chemistry  tells  us 
to  the  contrary,  the  chalk  might  be  a 
kind  of  fur  upon  the  bottom  of  the  earth- 
kettle,  which  is  kept  pretty  hot  below 
(paragraph  close)." 

7.  "Let  us  try  another  method  of 
making  the  chalk  tell  us  its  own  history 
(link,  two  simple  physical  experiments 
described).  .  .  .  The  general  mass  of 
it  is  made  up  of  very  minute  granules; 
but,  imbedded  in  this  matrix  are  innu- 
merable   bodies    (announcement  of    the 


COHERENCE 


47 


8.  The  other  bodies 
show  a  calcareous  fab- 
ric, of  which  the  com- 
monest form  is  called 
globigerina. 


9.  Globigerinae  seem 
from  their  form  to  be 
products,  not  of  mineral 
aggregation,  but  of  vital 
activity. 


10.  That  they  are 
actually  animal  organ- 
isms has  been  shown  by 


paragraph  subject).  ...  A  cubic  inch  of 
some  specimens  of  chalk  may  contain 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  these  bodies, 
compacted  together  with  incalculable 
miUions  of  the  granules  (paragraph  close)  " 

8.  "The  examination  of  a  transparent 
shce  gives  a  good  notion  of  the  manner 
in  which  the  components  of  the  chalk  are 
arranged  and  of  their  relative  proportions. 
But  by  rubbing  up  some  chalk  with  a 
brush  in  water  (link,  referring  to  the  ex- 
periments of  the  preceding  paragraph  and 
introducing  a  new  one)  .  .  .  each  of  the 
rounded  bodies  may  be  proved  to  be  a 
beautifully  constructed  calcareous  fab- 
ric {announcement  of  the  paragraph 
subject).  .  .  .  One  of  the  conamonest 
...  is  called  globigerina,  and  some 
specimens  of  chalk  consist  of  httle  else 
than  globigerinae  and  granules  (paror 
graph  close)." 

9.  "Let  us  fix  our  attention  upon  the 
globigerina.  It  is  the  spoor  of  the  game 
we  are  tracking.  If  we  can  learn  what 
it  is  and  what  are  the  conditions  of  its 
existence,  we  shall  see  our  way  to  the 
origin  and  past  history  of  the  chalk  (link). 
A  suggestion  which  may  naturally  enough 
present  itself  is  that  these  curious  bodies 
are  the  result  of  some  process  of  aggre- 
gation (negative  statement  of  the  subject; 
what  it  is  not).  .  .  .  Globigerina  is  not 
the  product  of  anything  but  vital  activity 
(paragraph  close)." 

10.  "Happily,  however,  better  evi- 
dence in  proof  of  the  organic  nature  of 
the  globigerinae  than  that  of  analogy  is 


48    THE  TECHNIC  OF  PLAN  AND  PARAGRAPHS 

the  fact  that  the  mud  forthcoming  (link).  It  so  happens  that 
brought  from  the  hot-  calcareous  skeletons,  exactly  similar  to 
tom  of  the  ocean  often  the  globigerinae  of  the  chalk,  are  being 
contains  exactly  similar  formed  at  the  present  moment  by  mi- 
skeletons  and  the  Uving  nute  Uving  creatures  which  flourish  in 
creatures  themselves  multitudes,  hterally  more  numerous  than 
whose  skeletons  will  in  the  sands  of  the  sea-shore,  over  a  large 
turn  go  to  form  this  extent  of  that  part  of  the  earth's  surface 
mud.  which  is  covered  by  the  ocean  (announce- 

ment  of  the  paragraph  subject).  .  .  . 
those  able  microscopists  found  that  this 
deep-sea  mud  was  almost  entirely  com- 
posed of  the  skeletons  of  Uving  organ- 
isms—  the  greater  proportion  of  these 
being  just  hke  the  globigerinae  already 
known  to  occur  in  the  chalk  (paragraph 
close)." 

Similar  adjustment  of  each  paragraph  to  its  place  in  the 
sequence  will  be  found  throughout  the  rest  of  Huxley's  lec- 
ture and  in  any  other  well  knit  discussion,  for  instance  in  the 
Epistle  to  the  Romans.  It  is  clear  in  Cardinal  Newman's 
lecture  on  Literature.^ 

-    Section  3  of  Newman's  Literature, 
Adjustment  at  the  Opening  and  the  Close  of  Paragraphs 

1.  Literature,  though 
the  derivation  of  the 
word  impUes  writing,  is 
habitually  discussed  in 
terms  of  speaking. 

2.  The  habit  arises  2.  "Now  I  insist  on  this  because  it 
from  the  fact  that  Utera-    shows  (link)  that  speech,  and  therefore 

^The  second  of  Newman's  Lectures  and  Essays  on  University  Sub- 
jects comprises  pages  268-294  in  The  Idea  of  a  University  (Longmans, 
Green  &  Co.)  The  analysis  above  is  of  the  opening  paragraphs  of  seo- 
tion  3. 


COHERENCE 


49 


ture  is  essentially  per- 
sonal. 


3.  The  personal,  sub- 
jective use  of  language 
distinguishes  literature 
from  science. 


4.  literary  expres- 
sion, then,  is  personal 
expression. 


literature,  which  is  its  personal  record,  is 
essentially  a  personal  work  {announce- 
ment of  the  paragraph  subject).  .  .  . 
In  other  words,  hterature  expresses,  not 
objective  truth,  as  it  is  called,  but  sub- 
jective; not  things,  but  thoughts  (paror 
graph  close)." 

3.  "Now  this  doctrine  will  become 
clearer  by  considering  another  use  of 
words,  which  does  relate  to  objective 
truth,  or  to  things;  which  relates  to 
matters  not  personal,  not  subjective  to 
the  individual,  but  which,  even  were 
there  no  individual  to  know  them  or  to 
talk  about  them,  would  exist  still  {link). 
Such  objects  become  the  matter  of 
science  {announcement  of  the  paragraph 
subject).  .  .  .  Science,  then,  has  to 
do  with  things,  hterature  with  thoughts; 
science  is  universal,  literature  is  per- 
sonal; science  uses  words  merely  as 
S3niibols,  but  hterature  uses  language  in 
its  full  compass,  as  including  phraseol- 
ogy, idiom,  style,  composition,  rhythm, 
eloquence,  and  whatever  other  proper- 
ties are  included  in  it  {paragraph  close)." 

4.  "Let  us  then  put  aside  the  scien- 
tific use  of  words  when  we  are  to  speak 
of  language  and  hterature  {link).  Lit- 
erature is  the  personal  use  or  exercise 
of  language.  That  this  is  so  is  further 
proved  from  the  fact  that  one  author 
uses  it  so  differently  from  another  {an- 
nouncement of  the  paragraph  subject). 
.  .  .  His  thought  and  f eehng  are  personal, 
and  so  his  language  is  personal  {para- 
graph dose)." 


50    THE  TECHNIC  OF  PLAN  AND  PARAGRAPHS 

The  agreement  of  these  two  lectures,  and  of  other  discus- 
sions as  different  from  them  in  subject  and  style  as  they  are 
from  each  other,  is  in  general  method  of  adjusting  para- 
graphs, not  in  any  set  pattern.  That  the  reference  of  each 
paragraph  to  the  preceding  should  be  expHcit  does  not  mean 
that  it  should  be  formal.  On  the  contrary,  connectives  are 
so  various  that  there  is  no  excuse  for  harping  on  one  kind; 
and  discussion  itself  is  so  flexible  that  there  is  no  need  of 
securing  consecutiveness  by  formality.  The  style  of  the  con- 
nectives should  be  the  style  of  the  whole  discussion,  more 
or  less  formal  according  to  circumstances.  In  general,  con- 
nectives are  explicit  and  expanded  in  proportion  as  the  dis- 
cussion is  oral  and  argumentative.  Thus  the  most  explicit 
and  formal  transitions  are  heard  in  debate.  Discussions 
less  oral  and  less  argumentative  than  Huxley's  and  New- 
man's have  simpler  connectives;  but  even  Huxley's  para- 
graph openings  vary  all  the  way  from  the  omission  of  the 
link  in  paragraph  5  to  the  expansion  of  it  through  more  than 
a  hundred  words  in  paragraph  4.  In  general  also,  connective 
reference  is  made  either  briefly  by  demonstratives  {this,  thus, 
here,  etc.)  or  conjunctions  (therefore,  but,  nevertheless,  etc.), 
or  more  extensively  by  repetition  of  significant  words  or 
phrases  from  the  preceding  paragraph.  These  means  offer 
variety  enough  to  make  formality  quite  unnecessary. 

3.  Emphasis 

a.    ITERATION 

But  various  and  adaptable  as  are  the  connective  openings 
of  paragraphs,  one  means  is  used  so  often  and  so  widely  as 
to  be  evidently  fundamental.  Whether  the  discussion  be 
lecture  or  essay,  criticism  or  plea,  in  proportion  as  its  con- 
secutiveness is  strong  the  opening  of  each  paragraph  will 
show  the  connection  by  repeating  at  least  one  significant 
word  or  phrase  from  the  close  of  the  preceding.    More  than 


EMPHASIS 


51 


on  anything  else,  the  clear  opening  of  each  paragraph  de- 
pends on  the  clear  closing  of  its  predecessor.  A  paragraph  is 
linked  generally  in  idea,  indeed,  to  the  whole  preceding  para- 
graph; but  it  is  linked  specifically  to  the  last  words.  The 
art  of  transition  adjusts  both  sides  of  the  pause  or  space.  It 
consists  not  only  in  supplying  words  of  reference  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  second  paragraph,  but  in  ending  the  first 
paragraph  so  clearly  that  it  may  be  referred  to  easily. 

Practically  this  means  careful  paragraph  emphasis.  It 
means  ending  each  paragraph  with  some  iteration,  or  em- 
phatic restatement,  of  its  point.  The  habit,  quite  evident 
in  the  quotations  at  pages  45-49  above,  is  widely  prev- 
alent. Such  iteration  contributes  no  less,  of  course,  to 
paragraph  unity.  For  the  three  principles,  unity,  coherence, 
emphasis,  are  interdependent;  and  coherence  is  practically 
dominant.  It  is  the  coherence  of  the  whole  that  demands 
the  unity  and  emphasis  of  each  paragraph,  just  as  on  a 
smaller  scale  the  coherence  within  the  paragraph  depends 
(page  63)  on  the  emphasis  of  each  sentence.  Thus  the 
typical  paragraph  structure,  whatever  the  style,  may  be 
represented  practically  by  the  following  diagram: 


Link,  or  words  of  connection.  An- 
nouncement of  the  paragraph  sub- 
Development   by  instances,  contrast, 


ject 
illustration,  etc 


Iteration  for  emphasis. 


62        THE  TECHNIC  OF  PLAN  AND  PARAGRAPHS 
b.   PROPORTION 

So  far,  we  have  been  considering  paragraphs  simply  as 
logical  frames,  as  skeletons.  Emphasis,  however,  obviously 
means  not  only  iteration,  but  development;  not  only  stress, 
but  space.  In  how  many  paragraphs  shall  a  given  aspect  of 
the  subject  be  developed?  This  is  a  question  of  proportion. 
Proportionally,  the  answer  is,  to  the  importance  of  its  bear- 
ing on  the  aim  of  the  whole  discussion.  To  further  another 
aim,  the  proportions  would  be  different.  Theoretically, 
then,  the  emphasis  due  to  a  given  aspect  depends  on  the 
imity  of  the  whole;  practically  the  due  emphasis  will  be  dis- 
covered in  the  course  of  working  out  the  plan  by  paragraphs. 
Huxley  must  have  decided  generally  in  advance  how  much 
space  to  give  for  his  purpose  to  the  discoveries  of  deep-sea 
dredging;  but  he  can  hardly  have  known  exactly  until  he 
saw  how  much  was  demanded  for  coherence  by  the  actual 
working  out  of  the  paragraphs.  The  space  given  to  a  par- 
ticular point  will  be  forecast  in  relation  to  the  unifying 
idea  of  the  whole;  it  will  be  corrected  by  working  out  the 
paragraphs. 

C.   AMPLIFICATION 

This  actual  working  out  of  the  paragraphs  means  the  due 
development  of  each  paragraph.  The  question  of  develop- 
ment is  not  only  how  far,  but  how.  How  is  a  paragraph 
developed?  To  know  that  it  must  have  an  underlying  prop- 
osition and  that  this  unifying  idea  is  generally  iterated  at 
the  close  is  only  to  know  its  frame,  not  its  substance.  The 
analyses  at  pages  42-49  above  give  little  more  than  a 
series  of  propositions;  and  a  series  of  propositions  never 
moved  any  one.  To  be  brought  home,  each  idea  must  be 
worked  put.  Emphasis  in  this  aspect  is  fulness;  and  it  is 
the  necessary  complement  to  unity.  For  paragraph  imity  is 
practical,  not  merely  as  restricting  the  discussion  to  one 


EMPHASIS  53 

idea  at  a  time,  but  as  giving  room  by  this  restriction  for 
bringing  out  the  one  idea  fully.  Within  the  limits  of  unity 
a  paragraph  may  thus  be  developed,  not  only  by  iteration, 
but  by  instances,  by  comparison,  by  contrast,  by  proof. 
Whether  one  of  these  methods  be  used,  or  two,  or  all  five,  is 
less  important  than  that,  by  whatever  method,  the  idea 
be  emphasized  fully.  In  fact,  these  methods  are  but  differ- 
ent aspects  of  the  general  need  (page  30)  of  the  specific  and 
concrete.  Discussion  will  be  organized  to  no  avail  unless  it 
is  brought  home. 

In  the  passage  below  from  Heam's  Genius  of  Japanese 
Civilization,  paragraphs  8  and  9,  the  opening  of  section  III, 
are  developed  by  the  simple  and  obvious  method  of 
instances.  Paragraph  14,  the  opening  of  section  IV,  is  de- 
veloped at  first  by  illustration,  by  a  comparison  drawn  from 
physics,  and  in  the  latter  part  by  contrast.  The  following 
paragraph  (15)  applies  this  contrast  argumentatively;  i.e., 
it  is  developed  by  proof,  by  generalizing  from  instances  and 
comparisons  not  merely  to  explain  the  proposition,  but  to 
estabUsh  it. 

8.  Generally  speaking,  we  construct  for  endurance,  the  Japanese 
for  impermanency.  Few  things  for  common  use  are  made  in  Japan 
with  a  view  to  durability.  The  straw  sandals  worn  out  and  replaced 
at  each  stage  of  a  journey;  the  robe  consisting  of  a  few  simple 
widths  loosely  stitched  together  for  wearing,  and  unstitched  again 
for  washing;  the  fresh  chopsticks  served  to  each  guest  at  a  hotel; 
the  light  shoji  frames  serving  at  once  for  windows  and  walls,  and 
repapered  twice  a  year;  the  mattings  renewed  every  autumn, — 
all  these  are  but  random  examples  of  countless  small  things  in 
daily  life  that  illustrate  the  national  contentment  with  imper- 
manency. 

9.  What  is  the  story  of  a  common  Japanese  dwelling?  Leaving 
my  home  in  the  morning,  I  observe,  as  I  pass  the  corner  of  the  next 
street  crossing  mine,  some  men  setting  up  bamboo  poles  on  a  vacant 


64         THE  TECHNIC  OF  PLAN  AND  PARAGRAPHS 

lot  there.  Returning  after  five  hours'  absence,  I  find  on  the  same 
lot  the  skeleton  of  a  two-story  house.  Next  forenoon  I  see  that 
the  walls  are  nearly  finished  already,  —  mud  and  wattles.  By 
sundown  the  roof  has  been  completely  tiled.  On  the  following 
morning  I  observe  that  the  mattings  have  been  put  down,  and  the 
inside  plastering  has  been  finished.  In  five  days  the  house  is  com- 
pleted. This,  of  course,  is  a  cheap  building;  a  fine  one  would  take 
much  longer  to  put  up  and  finish.  But  Japanese  cities  are  for  the 
most  part  composed  of  such  common  buildings.  They  are  as  cheap 
as  they  are  simple.   .   .   . 

14.  Now  it  is  worth  while  to  inquire  if  there  be  not  some  com- 
pensatory value  attaching  to  this  impermanency  and  this  small- 
ness  in  the  national  life.  Nothing  is  more  characteristic  of  that 
life  than  its  extreme  fluidity.  The  Japanese  population  represents 
a  medium  whose  particles  are  in  perpetual  circulation.  The  motion 
is  in  itself  peculiar.  It  is  larger  and  more  eccentric  than  the  motion 
of  Occidental  populations,  though  feebler  between  points.  It  is  also 
much  more  natural,  —  so  natural  that  it  could  not  exist  in  Western 
civihzation.  The  relative  mobiUty  of  a  European  population  and  the 
Japanese  population  might  be  expressed  by  a  comparison  between 
certain  high  velocities  of  vibration  and  certain  low  ones.  But  the 
high  velocities  would  represent,  in  such  a  comparison,  the  conse^ 
quence  of  artificial  force  apphed;  the  slower  vibrations  would  not. 
And  this  difference  of  kind  would  mean  more  than  surface  indica- 
tions could  announce.  In  one  sense,  Americans  may  be  right  in 
thinking  themselves  great  travelers.  In  another,  they  are  cer- 
tainly wrong;  the  man  of  the  people  in  America  cannot  compare, 
as  a  traveler,  with  the  man  of  the  people  in  Japan.  And  of  course, 
in  considering  relative  mobihty  of  populations,  one  must  consider 
chiefly  the  great  masses,  the  workers,  —  not  merely  the  small  class 
of  wealth.  In  their  own  country,  the  Japanese  are  the  greatest 
travelers  of  any  civihzed  people.  They  are  the  greatest  travelers 
because,  even  in  a  land  composed  mainly  of  mountain  chains,  they 
recognize  no  obstacles  to  travel.  The  Japanese  who  travels  most 
is  not  the  man  who  needs  railways  or  steamers  to  carry  him. 

15.  Now,  with  us,  the  common  worker  is  incomparably  less  free 
than  the  conmion  worker  in  Japan.    He  is  less  free  because  of  the 


EMPHASIS  55 

more  complicated  mechanism  of  Occidental  societies,  whose  forces 
tend  to  agglomeration  and  solid  integration.  He  is  less  free  because 
the  social  and  industrial  machinery  on  which  he  must  depend 
reshapes  him  to  its  own  particular  requirements,  and  always  so  as 
to  evolve  some  special  and  artificial  capacity  at  the  cost  of  other 
inherent  capacity.  He  is  less  free  because  he  must  hve  at  a  stan- 
dard making  it  impossible  for  him  to  win  financial  independence 
by  mere  thrift.  To  achieve  any  such  independence,  he  must  pos- 
sess exceptional  character  and  exceptional  faculties  greater  than 
those  of  thousands  of  exceptional  competitors  equally  eager  to 
escape  from  the  same  thraldom.  In  brief,  then,  he  is  less  inde- 
pendent because  the  special  character  of  his  civilization  numbs  his 
natural  power  to  five  without  the  help  of  machinery  or  large  capi- 
tal. To  live  thus  artificially  means  to  lose,  sooner  or  later,  the 
power  of  independent  movement.  Before  a  Western  man  can 
move  he  has  many  things  to  consider.  Before  a  Japanese  moves 
he  has  nothing  to  consider.  He  simply  leaves  the  place  he  dislikes, 
and  goes  to  the  place  he  wishes,  without  any  trouble.  There  is 
nothing  to  prevent  him.  Poverty  is  not  an  obstacle,  but  a  stimu- 
lus. Impedimenta  he  has  none,  or  only  such  as  he  can  dispose  of 
in  a  few  minutes.  Distances  have  no  significance  for  him.  Nature 
has  given  him  perfect  feet  that  can  spring  him  over  fifty  miles  a 
day  without  pain;  a  stomach  whose  chemistry  can  extract  ample 
nourishment  from  food  on  which  no  European  could  five;  and  a 
constitution  that  scorns  heat,  cold,  and  damp  alike,  because  stiU 
unimpaired  by  unhealthy  clothing,  by  superfluous  comforts,  by 
the  habit  of  seeking  warmth  from  grates  and  stoves,  and  by  the 
habit  of  wearing  leather  shoes. 

The  technic  of  discussion,  then,  may  be  summed  up  prac- 
tically as  follows:  (1)  fixing  one  point,  or  issue  (unity  of  the 
whole) ;  (2)  taking  hold,  or  beginning  where  the  audience  can 
take  hold,  and  going  on  (coherence)  by  definite  stages  (para- 
graph unity);  (3)  bringing  home,  or  concreteness  and  fulness 
in  the  development  of  each  paragraph  (emphasis). 


56  THE  TECH  NIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

II.  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 
1.  Revision  of  Sentences^ 

The  study  of  composition  has  been  seen  to  be  primarily  a 
study  of  the  ways  of  putting  thoughts  together.  It  is  con- 
cerned first  with  the  thinking  out  and  ordering  of  the  whole, 
then  with  the  adjustment  of  the  paragraphs.  But  the  whole 
having  been  planned  by  paragraphs,  and  each  paragraph 
having  been  adjusted  as  a  definite  stage  of  progress,  every 
one  needs  to  revise  his  sentences  and  words  in  order  to  make 
what  he  says  conform  in  every  part  to  what  he  means. 

Good  paragraphs  come  mainly  from  prevision;  but  good 
sentences  come  from  revision.  The  way  to  learn  clearness 
and  force  of  sentence-form  is  to  rewrite.  For  it  is  both  hard 
and  unprofitable  to  think  of  sentence-form  during  the  writ- 
ing of  the  first  draft.  The  important  thing  then  is  to  put  a 
statement  where  it  belongs,  not  to  put  it  in  a  certain  form. 
DuriQg  the  first  writing,  therefore,  instead  of  hesitating  over 
the  form  of  a  sentence,  one  should  compose  as  fast  and  as 
freely  as  possible  with  mind  bent  on  the  thought  of  the 
paragraph.  Only  when  the  paragraph  is  at  last  a  group  of 
sentences  should  the  separate  sentences  be  revised. 

So  in  speaking,  the  first  consideration  is  to  keep  on.  If  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence  the  speaker  thinks  of  a  better  form, 
he  had  better  finish  the  sentence  nevertheless  as  he  began 
it.  If  he  stops  in  order  to  start  it  differently,  he  tends  to 
annoy  and  confuse  his  hearers  and  to  lose  his  thread.  Keep- 
ing on  to  the  end  of  the  paragraph,  he  can  then  go  back  to 
revise  if  he  is  practising  alone;  if  he  is  speaking  in  public,  he 
can  only  remember  the  weak  sentence,  to  avoid  that  kind  in 
the  future. 

It  is  precisely  because  speaking  gives  less  opportunity  for 

*  This  section  is  adapted  from  the  author's  Writirig  and  Speaking. 


REVISION  OF  SENTENCES  57 

revision  that  sentence-form  must  be  studied  mainly  through 
writing.  We  all  expect  of  writing  more  careful,  more  delib- 
erate sentences.  We  assume  that  a  writer  has  settled  on 
just  the  form  he  intends.  We  expect  him  to  revise.  Now 
every  time  he  revises  he  grooves  deeper  a  channel  of  good 
habit.  The  sentences  of  his  first  drafts  become  clearer  and 
stronger  because  he  has  thus,  as  it  were,  grooved  straighter 
channels  for  his  thought.  He  speaks  in  better  sentences  be- 
cause he  has  revised  his  writing;  and  for  the  same  reason  he 
writes  better  sentences  before  revising  than  as  a  beginner  he 
wrote  after  revising.  But  the  most  expert  writers  never 
cease  to  revise  their  sentences.  More  corrections  of  this 
kind  are  made  in  printers'  proofs  than  of  any  other  kind. 
All  experience,  therefore,  makes  plain  that  in  matters  of 
sentence-structure  the  way  to  learn  to  write  is  to  rewrite. 

a.   UNITY  AND   COHERENCE   IN   SENTENCE-FORM 

The  revision  of  any  sentence  has  to  solve  one  of  two  prob- 
lems, and  sometimes  both:  (1)  to  make  the  sentence  clear 
by  itself;  (2)  to  make  it  strong  in  support  of  its  neighbors. 
The  first  is  mainly  a  matter  of  syntax.  The  application  of 
grammar  to  composition  is  so  to  frame  each  sentence  that  a 
hearer  or  reader  can  follow  it  instantly.  This  familiar  appli- 
cation may  be  summed  up  in  four  general  rules  for  revision: 

(1)  A  sentence  must  stick  to  one  plan  throughout. 

(2)  Modifiers  must  be  brought  near  to  the  parts  that  they 
modify. 

(3)  Complex  sentences  should  show  the  main  thought  in 
the  main  clause. 

They  arrived  finally  at  Ellis  Island,  when  they  found  that  the 
father  could  not  be  examined  that  night. 

This  sentence  is  upside  down.  Its  meaning  is  brought 
out  by  proper  subordination. 


58  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

When  they  arrived  finally  at  Ellis  Island,  they  found  that  the 
father  could  not  be  examined  that  night. 

Look  out  for  such  loose  when  additions. 

(4)  Compound  sentences  that  do  not  intend  real  coordi- 
nation should  be  made  complex  by  subordination  of  one 
member.  Improper  compound  sentences,  sentences  in  which 
the  parts  are  coordinate  in  form  though  one  of  them  is  subor- 
dinate in  meanmg,  arise  sometimes  from  haste.  They  are 
quite  pardonable  in  a  first  draft.  But  they  arise  also  from 
thinking  loosely.  To  recognize  them  and  correct  them  is  an 
exercise  not  so  much  in  writing  as  in  thinking.  It  is  a  sign 
of  intellectual  growth.  Children  habitually  speak  in  such 
loose  compound  sentences  because  they  are  not  old  enough 
to  subordinate  one  idea  to  another.  And  in  this  the  child- 
hood of  a  language  is  like  the  childhood  of  a  man.  The 
earlier  prose  writing  of  any  nation  is  full  of  such  loose  com- 
pound sentences,  because  the  language  has  not  yet  grown  up 
to  fine  logical  distinctions.  In  children  and  in  old  prose  we 
expect  this.  It  is  natural.  But  as  the  prose  of  a  people 
grows  with  the  people's  intellectual  life,  it  makes  larger  and 
larger  use  of  complex  sentences.  So  it  should  be  with  your 
own  writing.  Slowly,  but  surely,  you  ought  to  revise  such 
a  compound  sentence  as  this, 

Brutus  did  not  know  human  nature,  and  his  speech  failed, 
to  a  complex  sentence. 

The  speech  of  Brutus  failed  because  he  did  not  know  human 
nature. 

For  it  is  a  sigii  of  intellectual  growth  to  subordinate  in  form 
what  is  subordinate  in  thought.^ 

*  For  a  summary  of  punctuation  in  its  bearings  on  syntax  see  Appen- 
dix B. 


REVISION  OF  SENTENCES  59 

6.  EMPHASIS  IN  sentence-fokm:    putting  the 

RIGHT  WORD  AT  THE   END 

The  second  problem  for  revision  is  to  make  each  sentence 
strong  in  support  of  its  neighbors.  This  is  a  problem,  not  of 
grammar,  but  of  rhetoric;  for,  as  the  word  strong  implies,  it 
involves  the  principle  of  emphasis.  As  emphasis  is  given  to 
a  paragraph  by  giving  prominence  to  its  main  idea,  so  em- 
phasis is  given  to  a  sentence  by  giving  prominence  to  its 
main  word.  This  is  felt  most  clearly  in  speaking.  The 
following  sentences  express  each  thought  in  two  different 
forms.  Which  of  the  pair  is  easier  to  stress  properly  with 
the  voice? 

I 

(1)  The  first  thing  that  strikes  us  is  the  lack  of  scenery  in  this 
reproduction  of  the  Elizabethan  stage. 

(2)  The  first  thing  that  strikes  us  in  this  reproduction  of  the 
Elizabethan  stage  is  the  lack  of  scenery. 

II 

(1)  The  captain's  absolute  power  sometimes  led  to  petty  tyranny 
in  the  old  days  of  sailing  vessels,  according  to  Dana's  Two  Years 
before  the  Mast. 

(2)  According  to  Dana's  Two  Years  before  the  Mast,  the  cap- 
tain's absolute  power  in  the  old  days  of  sailing  vessels  sometimes 
led  to  petty  tyranny. 

Ill 

(1)  The  idea  of  the  Forest  Service  is  to  have  lumbering  econom- 
ically done,  not  to  prevent  lumbering. 

(2)  The  idea  of  the  Forest  Service  is,  not  that  lumbering  should 
be  prevented,  but  that  it  should  be  done  economically. 

In  each  pair  the  second  is  easier  to  speak  because  the 
voice  falls  with  less  effort  on  the  main  word;  for  the  main 
word  stands  at  the  end.  Since  the  voice  naturally  falls  at 
the  end,  since  that  is  the  natural  place  of  stress  and  pause, 


60  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

the  best  economy  is  to  put  there  the  word  or  phrase  that 
you  wish  to  emphasize.  If,  instead,  you  leave  at  the  end 
some  less  important  part,  you  cannot  stress  the  word  you 
wish  to  stress  without  slighting  the  close.  The  close  then 
sounds  feeble.  It  does  not  satisfy  the  ear.  Sentence  em- 
phasis means.  Put  the  right  word  at  the  end. 

(1)   Ending  with  the  most  Important  Word  of  the  Sentence 

But  which  is  the  ''right"  word?  Which  is  the  "main" 
word?  In  every  sentence,  considered  by  itself,  some  words 
carry  more  of  the  thought  of  the  sentence  than  others.  In 
the  examples  above,  such  words  are:  I.  lack  of  scenery, 
II.  tyranny,  III.  economically  done  .  .  .  prevent.  The  ob- 
ject of  the  sentence  is  to  make  these  words  stand  out  so 
conspicuously  that  the  hearer  or  reader  cannot  miss  them. 
These,  therefore,  are  the  "right"  words  to  put  at  the  end. 
And  when,  as  in  III.  above,  two  such  words  are  compared 
or  contrasted,  the  revision  of  the  sentence  must  take  care, 
(1)  that  the  contrast  shall  be  brought  out  by  parallel  form, 
and  (2)  that  the  more  important  of  the  two  shall  come  last. 
In  a  word,  end  the  sentence  with  its  point.  The  point  of 
I.  is  lack  of  scenery.  To  put  the  phrase  in  this  reproduction, 
etc.,  after  it  is  to  defeat  emphasis  in  speaking  or  ease  in 
reading,  to  deceive  the  ear  or  the  eye.  The  point  of  II.  is 
tyranny.  To  hide  it  in  the  middle  is  to  make  the  whole 
sentence  lag.  The  point  of  III.  is  done  economically.  First, 
the  two  contrasted  ideas,  prevented  and  done  economically, 
are  made  parallel  in  form  in  order  to  bring  out  the  contrast; 
secondly,  the  negative  one  is  put  first  in  order  to  end  the 
sentence  positively.  The  right  word,  then,  to  put  at  the  end 
of  the  sentence  is  the  word  that  carries  the  main  thought  or 
point. 

Sentence  emphasis  is  often  defeated  by  superfluous 
addition. 


REVISION  OF  SENTENCES  61 

So  with  trees;  their  needs  are  different  according  to  the  different 
varieties  that  we  find. 

The  itaUcized  clause  adds  nothing  to  the  sense.  It  merely 
blunts  the  end  of  the  sentence,  making  the  voice  linger  after 
the  point.  Emphasis  is  thus  defeated  by  redundancy.  For 
compactness  and  directness,  the  sentence  should  be  revised 
to  read: 

So  the  needs  of  trees  differ  according  to  their  varieties. 

The  following  is  another  instance  of  emphasis  defeated  by 
redundancy. 

Even  when  the  game  is  a  very  exciting  one,  the  spectators  may 
find  their  patience  tried  by  waiting  on  account  of  accidents  that 
happen  in  the  course  of  the  game. 

Here  any  one  can  see  that  the  repetition  of  game  is  imnec- 
essary.  Repetition  emphasizes;  and  here  it  emphasizes  the 
very  word  of  the  whole  sentence  which  should  not  be  em- 
phasized. To  emphasize  the  wrong  word  is  quite  as  bad  as 
not  to  emphasize  the  right  one.  The  remedy  sometimes 
proposed  is  to  avoid  repetition  by  substituting  for  game 
some  synonym  —  say  contest  or  struggle.  But  this  change 
does  not  in  the  least  improve  the  emphasis.  It  does  not 
even  remove,  but  merely  covers,  the  false  repetition.  In  all 
such  cases  the  remedy  is  to  change,  not  the  word,  but  the 
construction.  In  the  sentence  above  the  revision  is  quite 
simple.  The  whole  fiinal  clause,  like  the  one  in  the  sentence 
preceding,  is  superfluous.  An  accident  is  necessarily  some- 
thing that  happens;  and  of  course  it  happens  in  the  course  of 
the  game.  By  the  omission  of  this  whole  clause  the  sentence 
ends  with  the  right  word,  accidents.  Further,  a  very  exciting 
one  means  no  more  than  very  exciting.  All  such  o  .  .  . 
one  combinations  are  redundant.    Finally,  patience  tried  is 


62  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

sufficiently  implied  by  waiting.     The  revised  form,  then, 
would  be: 

Even  a  very  exciting  game  may  weary  the  spectators  by  the 
waits  for  occasional  accidents. 

Redundancy,  therefore,  though  it  may  be  corrected  some- 
times by  omitting  superfluous  words,  demands  in  other  cases 
the  recasting  of  the  whole  sentence. 

(2)   Ending  with  the  Important  Word  for  the  Paragraph 

But  the  principle  of  ending  positively  with  the  word  or 
phrase  that  carries  the  thought  will  not  always  suffice  if  a 
sentence  be  regarded  entirely  by  itself. 

(1)  The  marvelous  promptness  of  a  fire  company  is  due  to  the 
precision  of  its  drill. 

(2)  The  precision  of  drill  gives  a  fire  company  marvelous 
promptness. 

Which  form  is  better?  One  sounds  and  looks  as  effective 
as  the  other.  Evidently  the  important  words  are  prompt- 
ness and  precision  of  drill;  but  which  is  the  more  important? 
No  one  can  decide  from  the  sentence  taken  by  itself.  But 
any  one  can  decide  by  the  relation  of  that  sentence  to  the 
paragraph.  Suppose  that  it  is  the  opening  sentence  of  a 
paragraph,  that  the  paragraph  deals  with  the  fire  drill,  and 
that  the  preceding  paragraph  has  developed  by  instances  a 
fire  company's  marvelous  promptness.  At  once  the  choice 
falls  on  form  (1);  for  this  form  by  putting  promptness  first 
would  link  with  the  preceding  paragraph,  and  by  putting 
drill  last  would  emphasize  the  subject  of  the  present  para- 
graph. Suppose,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  preceding 
paragraph  has  shown  the  precision  of  drill,  and  that  the 
present  paragraph  shows  how  this  results  in  marvelous 
promptness.  At  once,  for  the  same  reasons,  the  choice  falls 
on  (2).    And  sentences  in  the  body  of  the  paragraph  can 


REVISION  OF  SENTENCES  63 

often  be  adjusted  by  the  same  principle:  emphasize  at  the 
end  of  a  sentence  that  part  which  is  most  important  for  carry- 
ing on  the  thought  of  the  paragraph.  The  "main"  word  or 
phrase,  the  "right"  part  to  make  stand  out,  is  that  part 
which  is  most  important  for  the  progress  of  the  paragraph. 

The  revision  of  a  sentence  for  emphasis,  then,  is  deter- 
mined, not  only  by  the  point  of  that  sentence,  but  also  by 
its  relation  to  its  paragraph.  The  object  of  revision  is  to 
adjust  a  sentence  to  its  context,  to  make  it  fit.  For  some- 
what as  the  emphasis  of  a  paragraph  helps  the  coherence  of 
the  whole  (page  51),  so  the  emphasis  of  a  sentence  may  help 
the  coherence  of  the  paragraph. 

Compare  the  following  by  reading  them  aloud : 

The  first  cause  of  the  spirit  of  independence  in  the  American  Colonies 
is  their  English  descent, 

(1) 

First,  the  descendants  of  Englishmen  settled  the  colonies.  Free- 
dom, Sir,  was  formerly  adored  in  England,  and  is  still  respected,  I 
hope.  The  colonists  emigrated  from  you  when  this  part  of  your 
character  was  most  predominant,  and  they  took  this  bias  and  direc- 
tion the  moment  they  parted  from  your  hand.  Liberty  according 
to  English  ideas  and  on  English  principles,  therefore,  not  mere 
liberty  in  general,  is  the  idea  to  which  they  are  devoted.  Abstract 
liberty  is  not  to  be  found  any  more  than  any  other  mere  abstrac- 
tions.   Some  sensible  object  must  be  the  test  of  liberty,  etc. 

(2) 

First,  the  people  of  the  colonies  are  descendants  of  Englishmen. 
England,  Sir,  is  a  nation  which  still,  I  hope,  respects,  and  formerly 
adored,  her  freedom.  The  colonists  emigrated  from  you  when  this 
part  of  your  character  was  most  predominant,  and  they  took  this 
bias  and  direction  the  moment  they  parted  from  your  hands. 
They  are  therefore  devoted,  not  only  to  liberty,  but  to  liberty 
according  to  English  ideas  and  on  English  principles.    Abstract 


64  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

liberty,  like  other  mere  abstractions,  is  not  to  be  found.    Liberty 
inheres  in  some  sensible  object,  etc. 

—  Burke,  Speech  on  Conciliation  with  America. 

In  the  first  form  above,  the  difficulty  of  bringing  out  the 
line  of  thought  is  due  to  the  difficulty  of  stressing  the  right 
word,  even  of  knowing  which  word  to  stress;  in  the  second, 
the  form  written  by  Burke,  all  this  difficulty  is  smoothed 
away  by  careful  sentence  emphasis.  The  voice  falls  natu- 
rally on  the  important  words,  because  these  words  stand  at 
the  end.  Yet  hardly  a  word  is  changed  otherwise.  The 
whole  difference  in  paragraph  coherence  is  due  to  sentence 
emphasis. 

(a)     EXPLICIT    REFERENCE    BY    REPETITION    OR    DEMONSTRATIVES 

Thus  the  practise  of  beginning  a  paragraph  with  its  sub- 
ject, linked  to  the  preceding  paragraph  by  repetition  of  an 
important  clause,  and  of  ending  a  paragraph  with  an  itera- 
tion (pages  45-49),  to  be  taken  up  in  turn  as  the  link  of 
the  next  paragraph,  —  all  this  may  be  applied  also  to  sen- 
tences. But  it  should  be  applied  to  sentences  less  strictly. 
It  is  useful  sometimes,  not  always.  For  there  is  no  need  of 
linking  every  sentence  as  we  link  every  paragraph.  Not 
every  sentence  carries  the  thought  forward.  Some  must 
give  pause  for  iteration;  some  must  bring  in  instances  or 
illustrations.  Otherwise  we  should  go  ahead  too  fast. 
Otherwise  speaking  and  writing  would  be  reduced  to  mere 
argumentative  outline,  dry  bones  without  meat.  Now  these 
frequent  sentences  of  instance,  illustration,  or  iteration  often 
need  no  link  at  all.  Their  connection  is  plain  enough  with- 
out. And  the  link,  even  when  one  is  desirable,  need  not 
always  be  a  link  of  repetition.  It  may  be  simply  a  con- 
junction {but,  nevertheless^  besides,  etc.)  or  a  demonstrative 
{here,  there,  thus,  this,  those,  etc.).  Care  in  the  choice  of 
such  link-words  is  an  important  part  of  precision.    To  at- 


REVISION  OF  SENTENCES 


65 


tempt  linking  by  repetition  of  an  emphatic  close  in  all  cases 
would  make  composition  mechanical  and  tiresome,  or  even 
impossible. 

In  the  following  passage,  the  linking  of  sentences  through 
the  repetition  of  an  emphatic  close  or  otherwise  is  indicated, 
wherever  it  occurs,  by  italics. 

Jane  Addams  on  Filial  Relations,^  Analysis  of  Paragraphs  IX  and 
XIII  to  Show  the  Adjustment  of  Sentence  to  Sentence 

Paragraph  IX 

1.  "Our  democracy  is  making  inroads 
upon  the  family,  the  oldest  of  human  in- 
stitutions, and  a  claim  is  being  advanced 
which  in  a  certain  sense  is  larger  than 
the  family  daim. 

2.  "The  daim  of  the  state  in  time  of 
war  has  long  been  recognized,  so  that  in 
its  name  the  family  has  given  up  sons 
and  husbands  and  even  the  fathers  of 
little  children. 

3.  "If  we  can  once  see  the  claims  of 
society  in  any  such  light,  if  its  misery 
and  need  can  be  made  clear  and  urged 
as  an  explicit  claim,  as  the  state  urges  its 
claims  in  the  time  of  danger,  then  for  the 
first  time  the  daughter  who  desires  to 
minister  to  that  need  will  be  recognized 
as  acting  conscientiously. 

4.  "  This  recognition  may  easily  come 
first  through  the  emotions,  and  may  be 
admitted  as  a  response  to  pity  and 
mercy  long  before  it  is  formulated  and 
perceived  by  the  intellect." 


1.  Partial  announce- 
ment of  the  paragraph 
subject. 


2.  Second  sentence 
linked  to  the  first  by 
repetition. 


3.  Linked  to  2  by 
repetition  and  demon- 
strative. 


4.  Linked  to  3  by 
demonstrative  and  repe- 
tition. 


^From  Democracy  and  Social  Ethics,  New  York,  the  Macmillan 
Company,  1914. 


66 


THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 


1.  Partial  announce- 
ment of  the  paragraph 
subject. 

2.  Expansion  of  1 
without  explicit  link. 


3.   Linked    to    2    by 
demonstrative. 


4.  Expansion    of    3 
without  expUcit  Hnk. 


5.  Further  expansion 
of  3  without  exphcit 
Hnk. 

6.  Linked  to  3,  4, 
and  5  by  conjunction, 
demonstrative,  and  rep- 
etition. 

7.  Linked  to  6  by 
repetition. 


Paragraph  XIII 

L  "It  is  always  difficult  for  the  fam- 
ily to  regard  the  daughter  otherwise  than 
as  a  family  possession. 

2.  "From  her  babyhood  she  has  been 
the  charm  and  grace  of  the  household, 
and  it  is  hard  to  think  of  her  as  an  inte- 
gral part  of  the  social  order,  hard  to  be- 
lieve that  she  has  duties  outside  of  the 
family,  to  the  state  and  to  society  in  the 
larger  sense. 

3.  "  This  assumption  that  the  daugh- 
ter is  solely  an  inspiration  and  refinement 
to  the  family  itself  and  its  own  immediate 
circle,  that  her  delicacy  and  pofish  are 
but  outward  symbols  of  her  father's  pro- 
tection and  prosperity,  worked  very 
smoothly  for  the  most  part  so  long  as  her 
education  was  in  fine  with  it. 

4.  "When  there  was  absolutely  no 
recognition  of  the  entity  of  woman's  life 
beyond  the  family,  when  the  outside 
claims  upon  her  were  still  whoUy  un- 
recognized, the  situation  was  simple,  and 
the  finishing  school  harmoniously  and 
elegantly  answered  all  requirements. 

5.  "She  was  fitted  to  grace  the  fire- 
side and  to  add  luster  to  that  social  circle 
which  her  parents  selected  for  her. 

6.  "Bid  this  family  assumption  has 
been  notably  broken  into,  and  ediicar 
tional  ideas  no  longer  fit  it. 

7.  "  Modern  ediuiation  recognizes  worn- 
an  quite  apart  from  family  or  society 
claims,  and  gives  her  the  training  which 


REVISION  OF  SENTENCES 


67 


8.  Linked  to  7  by 
less  formal  repetition 
within  the  sentence,  not 
at  the  beginning. 

9.  Linked  to  8  in  the 
same  way  as  8  to  7. 


10.  Summary  of  the 
result,  or  point  of  the 
whole  paragraph,  with- 
out explicit  reference 
to  9. 

.  IL  Final  iteration, 
with  expUcit  reference 
to  10  by  repetition,  as  of 
8  to  7. 


for  many  years  has  been  deemed  suc- 
cessful for  highly  developing  a  man's 
individuality  and  freeing  his  powers  for 
independent  action. 

8.  ''Perplexities  often  occur  when  the 
daughter  returns  from  college  and  finds 
that  this  recognition  has  been  but  par- 
tially accomplished. 

9.  "When  she  attempts  to  act  upon 
the  assumption  of  its  accomplishment, 
she  finds  herself  jarring  upon  ideals 
which  are  so  entwined  with  fihal  piety, 
so  rooted  in  the  tenderest  affections  of 
which  the  human  heart  is  capable,  that 
both  daughter  and  parents  are  shocked 
and  startled  when  they  discover  what  is 
happening,  and  they  scarcely  venture  to 
analyze  the  situation. 

10.  "The  ideal  for  the  education  of 
woman  has  changed  under  the  pressure 
of  a  new  claim. 


11.  "The  family  has  responded  to  the 
extent  of  granting  the  education,  but 
they  are  jealous  of  the  new  claim  and  as- 
sert the  family  claim  as  over  against  it." 


In  the  passage  above  an  emphatic  word  is  repeated  at  the 
beginning  of  the  next  sentence  only  when  such  linking  seems 
important.  In  other  cases  the  emphatic  word  is  repeated 
less  conspicuously  within  the  sentence;  in  still  others  suffi- 
cient connection  is  made  by  taking  up  the  same  idea  in 
other  words.  Macaulay,  whose  effects  depend  less  on  se- 
quence, is  usually  quite  careless  of  these  means  of  paragraph 
coherence.    Sometimes  his  paragraphs  are  quite  abrupt,  the 


68  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

sentences  standing  almost  detached  save  for  an  occasional 
and  or  hut;  sometimes  the  connection  is  managed  entirely 
by  sentence  emphasis.  Burke  not  only  repeats  oftener, 
but  usually  repeats  the  very  word,  because  his  composition 
proceeds  more  logically.  For  this  device  is  more  useful  in 
argument,  and  most  useful  in  argument  that  is  spoken.  In 
written  essays,  though  it  is  often  of  great  service,  it  is  gener- 
ally less  important. 

(jb)    INTRODUCTORY    "  AND  " 

We  sometimes  hear  that  and  should  not  be  used  to  begin 
a  sentence.  Though  this  cannot  be  urged  as  a  rule  of  cor- 
rectness, it  is  on  the  whole  good  advice.  Only  the  real 
offender  is  not  the  and;  it  is  the  construction.  Good  writers 
use  and  at  the  beginning  of  a  sentence;  but  they  use  it  sel- 
dom, because  the  connection  between  their  sentences  is 
usually  more  definite.  If  sentence  follows  sentence  through 
a  passage  of  any  length  with  no  more  definite  relation  than 
can  be  expressed  by  and,  the  thought  must  be  loose  or  the 
composition  hasty.  And  should  be  used  only  when  it  is 
really  meant;  and  it  should  not  be  meant  too  often.  A  fur- 
ther objection  is  that  no  one  can  use  and  often  to  begin  a 
sentence  without  confusing  the  distinction  between  a  sen- 
tence and  a  clause.  There  will  be  no  marked  difference  be- 
tween what  he  writes  as  separate  sentences  and  what  he 
writes  as  coordinate  clauses.  For  the  sake  of  clear  think- 
ing, therefore,  first  see  whether  the  anc?-sentence  should  not 
be  a  clause;  secondly,  if  it  is  really  a  sentence,  see  whether 
it  should  not  have  a  more  precise  connective.^ 

^  Of  the  other  coordinating  conjunctions,  however  and  also  are  sel- 
dom used  by  good  writers  to  begin  a  sentence.  They  stand  within. 
Still  others,  as  moreover,  may  stand  in  either  position. 


REVISION  OF  SENTENCES  '  69 

(3)  Adjusting  the  Length  of  Sentences  in  Relation 
to  the  Paragraph 

This  opens  also  the  question  of  sentence-length,  or  rather 
of  the  number  of  sentences  in  a  given  paragraph.  The  two 
paragraphs  following,  approximately  equal  in  number  of 
words,  are  conspicuously  different  in  number  of  sentences, 
the  first  having  three,  the  second  eighteen. 

For  my  religion,  though  there  be  several  circumstances  that 
might  persuade  the  world  I  have  none  at  all,  as  the  general  scan- 
dal of  my  profession,  the  natural  course  of  my  studies,  the  indiffer- 
ency  of  my  behaviour  and  discourse  in  matters  of  religion,  — 
neither  violently  defending  one,  nor  with  that  common  ardour  and 
contention  opposing  another,  —  yet  in  despite  hereof  I  dare,  with- 
out usurpation,  assume  the  honourable  style  of  a  Christian.  Not 
that  I  merely  owe  this  title  to  the  font,  my  education,  or  the  clime 
wherein  I  was  born,  as  being  bred  up  either  to  confirm  those  prin- 
ciples my  parents  instilled  into  my  unwary  understanding,  or  by  a 
general  consent  proceed  in  the  religion  of  my  country;  but  having 
in  my  riper  years  and  confirmed  judgment  seen  and  examined  all, 
I  find  myself  obliged,  by  the  principles  of  grace  and  the  law  of 
mine  own  reason,  to  embrace  no  other  name  but  this.  Neither 
doth  herein  my  zeal  so  far  make  me  forget  the  general  charity  I 
owe  unto  humanity  as  rather  to  hate  than  pity  Turks,  infidels,  and 
(what  is  worse)  Jews;  rather  contenting  myself  to  enjoy  that  happy 
style  than  maligning  those  who  refuse  so  glorious  a  title. 

—  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  Religio  Medici. 

What  is  the  hardest  task  in  the  world?  To  think.  I  would  put 
myself  in  the  attitude  to  look  in  the  eye  an  abstract  truth,  and  I 
cannot.  I  blench  and  withdraw  on  this  side  and  on  that.  I  seem 
to  know  what  he  meant  who  said,  No  man  can  see  God  face  to  face 
and  live.  For  example,  a  man  explores  the  basis  of  civil  govern- 
ment. Let  him  intend  his  mind  without  respite,  without  rest,  in 
one  direction.  His  best  heed  long  time  avails  him  nothing.  Yet 
thoughts  are  flitting  before  him.    We  all  but  apprehend,  we  dimly 


70  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

forebode  the  truth.  We  say,  I  will  walk  abroad,  and  the  truth  will 
take  form  and  clearness  to  me.  We  go  forth,  but  cannot  find  it. 
It  seems  as  if  we  needed  only  the  stillness  and  composed  attitude 
of  the  hbrary  to  seize  the  thought.  But  we  come  in,  and  are  as  far 
from  it  as  at  first.  Then,  in  a  moment  and  unannounced,  the  truth 
appears.  A  certain  wandering  fight  appears,  and  is  the  distinction, 
the  principle,  we  wanted.  But  the  oracle  comes  because  we  had 
previously  laid  siege  to  the  shrine.  It  seems  as  if  the  law  of  the 
intellect  resembled  that  law  of  nature  by  which  we  now  inspire, 
now  expire  the  breath;  by  which  the  heart  now  draws  in,  then 
hurls  out  the  blood,  —  the  law  of  undulation.  So  you  must  labour 
with  your  brains,  and  now  you  must  forbear  your  activity  and  see 
what  the  great  Soul  showeth.  —  Emerson,  Intellect. 

At  first  glance  the  difference  between  these  two  extreme 
cases  seems  to  be  in  style.  The  effect  of  the  first  is  sustained 
and  smooth;  of  the  second,  staccato  and  abrupt.  And  the 
difference  is  not  merely  in  the  presence  or  absence  of  explicit 
reference;  it  lies  mainly  in  the  predominance  of  long  or  of 
short  sentences.  Further,  the  paragraph  of  long  sentences 
has  the  easier  flow  because  of  a  habit  of  subordination,  of 
combining  as  clauses  such  statements  as  the  second  para-^ 
graph  leaves  separate  in  sentences.  Obviously  also,  either 
extreme  leads  to  monotony.  Since  monotony  of  style  means 
monotony  in  sentence-form,  variety  in  length  is  an  end  in 
itself.  In  this  aspect  both  these  paragraphs  err,  though  in 
opposite  directions. 

But  the  problem  goes  deeper  than  sound.  In  thought 
both  these  paragraphs  are  diflicult;  the  one  because  the  rela- 
tion of  statements  is  so  complicated  as  to  tax  attention,  the 
other  because  the  relation  is  not  expressed  at  all.  To  care- 
ful reading  the  first  is  much  the  clearer  as  a  whole;  with  due 
attention  we  arrive  at  the  goal  certainly.  The  second  is  so 
far  from  explicit  as  to  leave  the  drift  mainly  to  the  reader. 
In  any  attempt  to  express  the  relations  of  these  detached 


REVISION  OF  SENTENCES  71 

statements  each  to  each  by  subordination  and  exphcit  refer- 
ence no  two  readers  will  exactly  agree.  It  is  Emerson's  way, 
not  to  convey  ideas,  but  to  provoke  them.  He  deliberately 
ignores  coherence,  preferring  to  throw  out  detached  sugges- 
tions for  the  reader  to  interpret  as  he  can.  The  same  habit 
is  seen  to  a  lesser  degree  in  Carlyle,  who  says  somewhere, 
*'I  hate  to  see  a  set  of  propositions  hanging  on  to  one  an- 
other's skirts."  This  method  of  suggestion,  though  it  has 
its  value  undoubtedly,  will  not  serve  most  purposes  of  dis- 
cussion. If  we  are  to  make  ourselves  quite  clear,  though  we 
should  not  go  to  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  length,  we  must 
generally  follow  his  method  of  subordination. 

The  question  is  not  simply,  then.  Long  sentences,  or 
short?  If  it  were,  we  should  always  prefer  the  short.  Nor 
is  it  ever  a  question  of  a  single  sentence.  It  is  not,  Shall  I 
make  this  sentence  long,  or  short?  A  sentence  must  be  as 
long  as  its  meaning  demands;  and  this  demand  is  deter- 
mined by  its  place  in  the  development  of  the  paragraph. 
The  real  question,  then,  is  this:  Shall  I  leave  these  two 
statements  standing  side  by  side  as  separate  sentences,  or 
shall  I  combine  them  by  making  one  of  them  a  clause?  In 
elucidating  the  idea  of  the  paragraph  do  they  make  two 
points,  or  only  one?  Does  this  second  one  bear  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  paragraph  directly,  or  does  it  bear  indirectly 
through  its  relation  to  the  first?  In  the  former  case,  being 
independent,  it  is  a  sentence;  in  the  latter,  being  dependent, 
it  is  a  clause.  Such  practise  in  reducing  to  clauses  state- 
ments written  hastily  in  the  first  draft  as  sentences  is  a 
direct  means  of  overcoming  a  habit  of  redundancies;  but  its 
value  goes  beyond  conciseness.  It  is  another  means  of  mak- 
ing sentence-form  serve  the  coherence  and  emphasis  of  the 
paragraph. 


72  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

(4)  Sentence-forms  Generally  Emphatic 
Balanced  Sentences.  —  Though  sentence  emphasis  is  best 
secured  in  each  case  by  revising  the  sentence  to  fit  that 
particular  place,  this  revision  will  show  that  two  sentence- 
forms  are  emphatic  generally.  These  two  forms  are  recog- 
nized, therefore,  by  technical  names:  (1)  the  halancCj  or 
balanced  sentence;  (2)  the  period,  or  periodic  sentence.  The 
balance  is  very  commonly  an  emphatic  form  for  compound 
sentences.  As  its  name  implies,  it  is  a  compound  sentence 
whose  parts  are  made  alike  in  form. 

(1)  In  the  ordinary  high  school  a  boy  gets  all  his  education 
with  his  head;  but  in  the  manual-training  high  school  his  hands 
also  come  into  play. 

(2)  In  the  ordinary  high  school  a  boy  gets  all  his  education 
with  his  head;  but  in  the  manual-training  high  school  he  gets  part 
of  it  with  his  hands. 

The  second  form  is  plainly  the  more  emphatic.  Indeed, 
the  first  shows  its  weakness  as  soon  as  it  is  spoken.  In 
attempting  to  stress  hands  one  has  to  slur  the  end  of  the 
sentence.  But  why  stress  hands?  Evidently  because  it  is 
contrasted  with  head.  The  contrast  in  thought  is  most 
easily  brought  out  by  a  likeness  in  form,  i.e.,  by  a  balance. 

(1)  The  United  States  has  prospered  during  a  long  period  of 
protection;  but  under  free  trade  the  same  period  in  England  has 
been  one  of  prosperity. 

(2)  The  United  States  has  prospered  during  a  long  period  of 
protection;  but  England  has  prospered  during  the  same  period 
with  free  trade. 

Here  the  emphasis  desired  to  bring  out  the  parallel  be- 
tween protection  and  free  trade  is  defeated  in  (1)  by  placing 
these  main  words  in  different  positions,  and  gained  in  (2)  by 
placing  them  in  the  same  position.  A  compound  sentence  of 
comparison  or  contrast  is  usually  made  emphatic  by  balance. 


REVISION  OF  SENTENCES  73 

The  memory  of  other  authors  is  kept  alive  by  their  works;  but 
the  memory  of  Johnson  keeps  many  of  his  works  aUve. 

—  Macaulay,  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson, 

This  is  simply  a  wider  application  of  the  rule  for  correla- 
tives. It  applies  to  the  whole  sentence  what  we  have  all 
learned  about  parallel  parts. 

(1)  They  succeeded  neither  by  land  nor  sea. 

(2)  They  succeeded  neither  by  land  nor  by  sea. 

(1)  A  countenance  more  in  sorrow  than  anger. 

(2)  "A  countenance  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger." 

(1)  Either  he  attempted  too  much  or  chose  incapable  officers. 

(2)  He  either  attempted  too  much  or  chose  incapable  officers. 

(1)  He  both  amazed  his  native  town  by  his  theories  jand  his 
practises. 

(2)  He  amazed  his  native  town  both  by  his  theories  and  by  his 
practises. 

In  all  these  cases  the  second  form  is  the  one  that  we  ex- 
pect. Most  of  us  are  fond  enough  of  balance  to  feel  in  the 
first  form  something  lacking  or  something  crooked.  When 
a  speaker  or  writer  sets  out  to  express  a  parallel  we  expect 
him  to  express  it  exactly.  If  he  leaves  it  not  quite  ship- 
shape, we  are  annoyed.  Therefore  it  is  a  rule,  almost  as 
binding  as  a  rule  of  syntax,  that  correlative  phrases  and 
clauses  shall  be  exactly  alike  in  form.  The  same  principle 
may  be  applied  to  a  whole  compound  sentence;  but  this  ap- 
plication is  less  binding.  Here  it  is  no  longer  a  rule  of  cor- 
rectness, but  a  useful  means  of  emphasis.  As  applied  to  a 
whole  sentence,  it  is  often  advantageous;  as  applied  to 
minor  parts,  it  is  necessary. 

Periodic  Sentences.  —  The  period,  or  periodic  sentence,  is 
very  commonly  an  emphatic  form  for  complex  sentences. 
In  general,  a  periodic  sentence  follows  the  principle  of  em- 
phasis by  putting  the  main  clause  last.    It  puts  first  all  the 


74  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

subordinate  clauses,  all  the  conditions,  exceptions,  or  other 
modifiers  of  its  main  idea,  in  order  to  end  with  the  point. 
Thus  a  period  is  a  sentence  suspended  up  to  its  close.  In- 
stead of  making  an  assertion  and  then  modifying  it,  the  " 
periodic  sentence  makes  no  assertion  at  all  until  all  the 
modifiers  are  in.  It  is  a  sentence  left  incomplete  up  to  its 
period.  It  does  not  end  until  the  last  word.  A  period,  then, 
is  a  sentence  so  formed  that  up  to  its  last  word  its  syntax 
is  incomplete. 

(1.  unperiodic)  We  shall  be  swamped  if  we  attempt  those  rapids 
with  our  canoe  so  heavily  laden. 

(2.  periodic)  If  we  attempt  those  rapids  with  our  canoe  so  heav- 
ily laden,  we  shall  be  swamped. 

(1.  unperiodic)  We  may  as  well  signal  the  boat,  since  we  have 
missed  that  train. 

(2.  periodic)  Since  we  have  missed  that  train,  we  may  as  well 
signal  the  boat. 

(1.  unperiodic)  He  advanced  very  near  under  cover  of  the  dense 
forest,  so  that  the  enemy  had  no  escape. 

(2.  periodic)  He  advanced  so  near  imder  cover  of  the  dense  for- 
est that  the  enemy  had  no  escape. 

Sometimes  in  an  oratorical  summary  the  period  holds  the 
sjnitax  in  suspense  at  considerable  length. 

If,  then,  the  removal  of  this  spirit  of  American  liberty  be  for  the 
greater  part,  or  rather  entirely,  impracticable;  if  the  ideas  of  crim- 
inal process  be  inapplicable,  or,  if  applicable,  are  in  the  highest 
degree  inexpedient;  what  way  yet  remains? 

—  Burke,  On  Conciliation  vxith  America. 

And  yet  he,  who  was  generally  the  haughtiest  and  most  irritable 
of  mankind,  who  was  but  too  prompt  to  resent  anjrthing  which 
looked  like  a  slight  on  the  part  of  a  purse-proud  bookseller  or  of  a 
noble  and  powerful  patron,  bore  patiently  from  mendicants,  who, 
but  for  his  bounty,  must  have  gone  to  the  workhouse,  insults  more 


REVISION  OF  SENTENCES  75 

provoking  than  those  for  which  he  had  knocked  down  Osborne  and 
bidden  defiance  to  Chesterfield. — Macaulay,  Samuel  Johnson. 

But  the  main  use  of  the  periodic  form  is  in  such  shorter 
sentences  as  the  following,  from  the  same  essay  of  Macaulay: 

Being  frequently  under  the  necessity  of  wearing  shabby  coats 
and  dirty  shirts,  he  became  a  confirmed  sloven.  Being  often  very 
hungry  when  he  sat  down  to  his  meals,  he  contracted  a  habit  of 
eating  with  ravenous  greediness. 

The  periodic  form  is  naturally  adapted  to  such  sentences 
of  result.  Though  in  conversation  we  might  say.  He  was 
overtired,  so  that  he  took  cold,  in  writing  we  should  revise  to 
the  more  precise  form,  He  was  so  overtired  that  he  took  cold. 
The  two  are  alike  brief;  but  what  the  former  gives  in  two 
pieces  the  latter  gives  in  one.  The  same  is  true  for  conces- 
sive clauses  and,  to  a  lesser  degree,  for  other  subordinate 
clauses,  in  short  complex  sentences.  Emphasis  is  usually 
served  by  putting  first  the  if-  or  though-  or  stnce-clause.  But 
the  main  consideration  is  always,  not  to  write  a  certain  pat- 
tern of  sentence,  but  to  bring  out  the  right  word.  Where 
the  emphasis,  as  sometimes  happens,  should  fall  on  the  sub- 
ordinate clause,  the  periodic  form  would  be  false. 

These  and  other  aspects  of  sentence  emphasis  may  be 
studied  in  the  following  well  known  passage: 

Mr.    PRESmENT,    AND    GENTLEMEN    OP    THE    CONVENTION:     If 

we  could  first  know  where  we  are  and  whither  we  are  tending,  we 
could  better  judge  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it.  We  are  now  far 
into  the  filth  year  since  a  policy  was  initiated  with  the  avowed 
object,  and  confident  promise,  of  putting  an  end  to  slavery  agita- 
tion. Under  the  operation  of  that  policy,  that  agitation  has  not 
only  not  ceased,  but  has  constantly  augmented.  In  my  opinion, 
it  will  not  cease  until  a  crisis  shall  have  been  reached  and  passed. 
"A  house  divided  against  itseK  cannot  stand."  I  believe  this 
government  cannot  endure  permanently  half  slave  and  half  free. 


76  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

T  do  not  expect  the  Union  to  be  dissolved;  I  do  not  expect  the 
house  to  fall;  but  I  do  expect  it  will  cease  to  be  divided.  It  will 
become  all  one  thing,  or  all  the  other.  Either  the  opponents  of 
slavery  will  arrest  the  further  spread  of  it,  and  place  it  where  the 
pubUc  mind  shall  rest  in  the  behef  that  it  is  in  the  course  of  ulti- 
mate extinction;  or  its  advocates  will  push  it  forward,  till  it  shall 
become  ahke  lawful  in  all  the  states,  old  as  well  as  new,  North  as 
well  as  South.  —  Lincoln,  Opening  of  the  Springfield  Speech,  1858. 

In  the  last  sentence  above,  notice  first  that  the  periodic 
suspense  is  kept  by  using  correlatives.  Either  keeps  us 
waiting  for  or.  But  this  sentence  is  not  periodic  as  a  whole. 
The  syntax  is  completed  at  the  word  forward.  Then  an- 
other clause  is  added,  till  .  .  .  states;  then  a  phrase,  old  as 
well  as  new;  and  finally  another  phrase,  North  as  well  as 
South.  Such  adding  of  phrases  and  clauses  often  makes  a 
sentence  weak  by  making  it  trail  through  a  succession  of 
afterthoughts.  But  these  are  not  afterthoughts;  they  are 
part  of  the  first  plan.  Lincoln  meant  from  the  beginning 
to  put  them  there.  Why?  Because  each  addition  enforces 
the  thought,  carries  it  forward,  expands  it,  and  finally 
drives  it  home.  As  the  sentence  goes  on,  it  increases  in 
force.  Such  a  plan  of  increasing  force,  without  suspense,  is 
sometimes  called  climax,  from  the  Greek  word  meaning  a 
ladder.  Climax  is  not  a  distinct  sentence-form;  it  is  merely 
an  application  of  the  general  principle  of  emphasis;  but 
it  exhibits  the  principle  in  an  aspect  worth  formulating. 
A  strong  sentence  goes  uphill;  a  weak  sentence  goes  downhill. 

2.  Revision  of  Words  ^ 

As  sentences  are  settled  by  revision,  so  also  are  words. 
Pausing  for  exactly  the  right  word  during  the  process  of 
composition,  like  pausing  to  shape  a  sentence,  may  be  a 

^  Some  passages  in  this  section  are  adapted  from  the  author's  Writing 
and  Speaking. 


REVISION  OF  WORDS  77 

serious  interruption.  Conversely,  revision  must  take  time 
to  substitute  for  the  approximate  words  of  the  first  draft 
those  which  are  (1)  correct,  (2)  precise,  and  at  need  also 
(3)  concrete.  All  this  takes  time  because  it  demands  choice 
among  several  words,  sometimes  among  many.  For  the 
right  word  is  the  word  that  best  conveys  the  particular 
meaning:  The  general  meaning  is  conveyed  more  or  less  by 
a  whole  group  of  words  called  synonyms.  To  some  extent 
the  meaning  will  be  conveyed  by  any  of  them;  but  one,  bet- 
ter than  all  the  others,  will  usually  be  found  to  convey  the 
particular  intention.  It  is  the  task  of  revision  to  seek  this 
exact  word. 

a.  USAGE 

Obviously  the  word  chosen  must  be  correct  in  the  sense  of 
being  accepted,  of  being  for  that  meaning  in  good  use.  If 
it  is  not  accepted  in  the  desired  sense,  it  will  not  serve  the 
primary  purpose  of  communication;  it  will  not  convey  the 
intended  meaning  surely.  A  word  is  chosen  primarily,  that 
is,  from  the  point  of  view  of  hearers  or  readers.  The  mean- 
ing must  be  conveyed  in  such  terms  as  hearers  or  readers, 
whatever  may  be  the  private  preference  of  the  speaker  or 
writer,  generally  accept.  To  choose  otherwise  is  to  distract 
attention  and  even  to  run  the  risk  of  being  misunderstood. 
For  speech  is  primarily  social;  and  usage,  or  good  use,  is 
simply  social  habit  in  speech. 

According  to  the  admirable  summary  of  Dr.  Campbell,^ 
good  use  is  (1)  reputable  use,  (2)  national  use,  (3)  present 
use.  Negatively  this  means  that  consideration  of  social 
habit  precludes  such  use  of  a  word  as  is  (1)  disreputable,  not 
used  by  speakers  and  writers  of  reputation;  or  (2)  local, 
confined  to  some  section,  trade,  or  profession,  not  used 

*  George  Campbell,  The  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric  (first  published  in 
1776),  Book  II,  chapter  i. 


78  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

throughout  the  country;  or  (3)  either  past  or  future,  not 
accepted  now.  Dr.  Campbell  meant  that  a  word,  or  a  use 
of  a  word,  to  be  correct  must  have,  not  one  of  these  marks, 
but  all  three.  Present  us6  may  be  incorrect  because  it  is 
disreputable  or  local;  a  use  once  reputable,  or  somewhere 
reputable,  may  be  incorrect  because  it  is  not  present  or  not 
national.  A  use  definitely  past  no  one  will  attempt  to  re- 
vive except  in  humor  or  affectation.  What  raises  question 
is  use  that  is  not  past,  but  passing.  Here  writers  may  prop- 
erly differ;  that  is,  the  decision  is  partly  the  affair  of  indi- 
vidual taste.  In  diction  one  is  either  reactionary  or  radical 
at  his  peril;  but  he  may  quite  decently  be  either  conserva- 
tive or  progressive. 

The  most  conspicuous  violation  of  good  use  is  slang.  Ex- 
pression that  is  at  once  local  and  loose,  in  so  far  as  it  be- 
comes a  habit,  reflects  and  confirms  a  tendency  toward 
local  and  loose  thinking.  As  by  Gresham's  law  of  money, 
the  inferior  currency  seems  to  drive  the  superior  out  of  cir- 
culation. To  this  extent  slang,  instead  of  widening  one's 
diction,  tends  to  narrow  and  stunt  it.  The  cheap  immediate 
effect  upon  a  few  acquaintances  is  gained  at  some  sacrifice 
of  growth  into  wider  command  of  language.  For  freedom  is 
promoted  less  by  incorrectness  than  by  correctness.  Free- 
dom comes  ultimately  from  control  of  a  wide  range.  Wide- 
ness  of  vocabulary,  of  course,  cannot  be  achieved  by  study 
of  words.  It  comes  slowly  through  experience,  through  the 
study  of  things  and  of  ideas.  But  an  important  part  of  this 
wider  study  is  the  conscious  effort  to  make  one's  expression 
convey  one's  thought  truly  and  surely.  That  is  the  real 
task  in  the  choice  of  words.  It  is  a  task  of  revision;  and  it 
is  hindered,  not  helped,  by  temporary  makeshifts. 

What  slang  seeks  is  force.  The  intentional  use  of  it  is  for 
directness  of  appeal.  Now  directness  may  for  the  present 
be  summed  up  as  concreteness  (pages  30,  53);   and  slang 


REVISION  OF  WORDS  79 

is  usually  concrete,  often  even  figurative.  So  far,  so  good. 
But  usage  never  restricts  concreteness.  Instead  of  repeat- 
ing the  slang  figure,  dulled  already  by  much  vague  applica- 
tion, one  may  always  find  a  concrete  expression  that  is  both 
accepted  and  more  particularly  significant.  Not  only  may 
he  do  so,  but  the  oftener  he  does,  the  wider  will  he  open 
the  resources  of  language  in  homely  force.  To  seek  one's 
own  concrete  term,  one's  own  figure,  instead  of  making 
shift  with  the  shopworn  cant  of  the  music-hall  and  the 
street,  is  again  to  promote  expressiveness. 

Some  of  the  raciest  of  concrete  expressions  are  among  oiu* 
old  homely  idioms  and  proverbs.  A  foreigner,  a  man  not 
nurtured  in  our  speech,  may  easily  master  English  so  far  as 
to  avoid  solecisms;  but  idiom,  homely  famiHarity,  demands 
longer  and  deeper  acquaintance.  Meantime  he  has  no  re- 
source for  familiarity  of  phrase  except  slang.  The  feeble- 
ness of  expression  in  the  speech  of  foreigners  ought  to  warn 
us  against  trusting  slang  for  force.  Their  weakness  is  from 
lack  of  intimacy.  That  is  precisely  the  weakness  that  no 
man  should  permit  himself  in  his  own  tongue.  Nat  to  know 
the  custom  of  the  country  is  perpetually  to  risk  being  foimd 
in  bad  taste;  but  not  to  know  the  custom  of  one's  own 
country  is  to  be  in  bad  taste.  Bad  taste  may,  indeed,  have 
a  certain  force;  but  it  forfeits  the  force  that  carries  beyond 
the  coterie  and  the  day,  that  is  felt  by  all  of  kindred  speech. 

It  is  significant  that  slang  is  generally  confined  to  conver- 
sation. In  print  it  does  not  often  occur  outside  of  stories, 
where  it  generally  represents  the  speech  of  a  character,  not 
of  the  writer.  Slang  in  an  editorial,  a  magazine  article,  or  a 
review  is  quite  imusual.  Even  in  spoken  address  slang  is 
comparatively  rare,  heard  only  in  very  popular  and  familiar 
appeal.  Consecutive  discussion,  that  is,  whether  oral  or  writ- 
ten, generally  makes  httle  use  of  slang.  There  is,  however, 
some  general  difference  in  usage  between  speech  and  writ- 


80  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

ing.  The  diction  of  writing  is  more  careful  and  more  con- 
servative. Written  use  pays  more  heed  to  the  tradition,  or 
history,  of  the  language;  spoken  use,  to  its  constant  change. 
Though  spoken  use  thus  demands  consideration,  one  should 
remember  that  his  own  spoken  use  is  constantly  forming 
habits,  that  carelessness  in  prommciation  and  other  points 
of  usage  at  least  hinders  correctness,  precision,  and  force  in 
writing.  With  this  caution  he  should  both  consult  diction- 
aries and  listen  to  the  educated  speech  about  him. 

For  a  language  is  at  once  a  tradition  and  a  development. 
Most  words  in  any  language  are  full  of  the  past;  they  have 
histories,  and  the  history  of  each  word  gives  it  certain  asso- 
ciations which  make  it  more  or  less  apt  to  express  a  given 
shade  of  meaning.  Thus  regard  for  tradition  helps  to  make 
one's  use  of  words  both  more  exact  and  more  suggestive. 
But  as  the  use  of  a  word  has  changed,  so  it  is  still  changing. 
A  language  is  never  fixed  till  it  is  dead.  Such  regard  for 
tradition  as  forbids  a  new  use  after  it  has  become  general  is 
contrary  to  a  manifest  tendency  of  language.  It  is  there- 
fore an  illusion,  besides  being  a  hindrance  to  freedom  of 
communication.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  natural  desire  for 
free  communication  leads  to  impatient  disregard  of  tradi- 
tion and  to  the  seizing  of  new  uses  before  they  become  cur- 
rent, one's  diction,  as  has  been  seen,  tends  to  become  poor 
and  vague.  Either  extreme  is  a  restriction.  A  full  use  of 
language  demands  both  study  of  its  tradition  in  books  and 
attentive  observation  of  how  educated  people  are  actually 
talking. 

For  study  of  words  the  reference  book  is  the  dictionary. 
The  function  of  a  dictionary  is  to  record  in  the  form  most 
convenient  for  reference  all  such  information  about  words 
as  will  guide  a  discriminating  use.  Such  information  in- 
cludes: (1)  spelling,  (2)  pronunciation,  (3)  general  meaning, 
(4)  particular  meanings,  i.e.,  synonyms  and  various  applica- 


REVISION  OF  WORDS  81 

tions,  (5)  derivation,  or  origin,  (6)  history,  or  successive  ap- 
plications, (7)  examples,  i.e.,  quotations  of  passages  showing 
the  application  of  a  word  by  its  context.  Of  these  the  first 
three  are  supplied  by  every  dictionary,  the  others  in  degrees 
varying  according  to  the  size  and  scope  of  the  particular 
work.  To  consult  the  dictionary  only  for  the  first  three 
items  is  to  blunder  with  tools.  Revision,  to  be  adequate  to 
the  particular  occasion,  still  more  to  promote  control  of 
expression,  must  go  farther.  Though  there  is  no  need  to 
explore  all  the  aspects  of  a  word  in  every  case,  there  is  need 
to  explore  enough  for  a  choice.  Every  professional  writer 
has  several  dictionaries  at  his  desk,  and  uses  them  all. 
Every  student  needs  for  his  own  exclusive  use  a  dictionary 
large  enough  to  include,  at  least  summarily,  the  first  five 
items  above.  He  needs  further  convenient  access  to  those 
large  dictionaries  which  include  all  aspects  of  every  word. 
The  more  one  writes,  the  more  he  will  use  dictionaries. 

As  to  usage,  no  less  than  to  other  aspects  of  language,  the 
function  of  a  dictionary  is  merely  to  record,  not  to  legislate. 
Its  office  is  to  say,  not  ''This  word  shall  be  used  in  such  and 
such  senses";  but  ''This  word  is  used  with  the  following 
meanings  now.  The  eighteenth-century  use  to  mean  so- 
and-so  is  now  so  far  obsolescent  as  hardly  to  appear  outside 
of  verse.  The  application  to  so-and-so  has  not  yet  been 
recognized  by  good  authors."  The  dictionary  is  there  to 
tell  us,  never  what  should  be,  but  sometimes  what  has  been, 
sometimes  what  seems  about  to  be,  always  and  above  all 
what  is. 

Thus  faithfully  and  impersonally  to  reflect  usage  is  a  task 
both  large  and  hard;  and  harder  than  for  French  or  Itahan 
is  the  task  for  English.  To  determine  in  a  doubtful  case  the 
use  accepted  generally  by  educated  speakers  of  English  is 
difficult  both  because  of  the  wide  diffusion  of  the  language 
and  because  of  the  English  temper  of  individualism.     No 


82  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

one  city  holds  for  English  the  place  of  Athens  for  ancient 
Greek  or  of  Paris  for  modern  French.  In  the  United  States 
social  eminence  is  not  marked  by  habitual  respect  for  na- 
tional use;  nor  is  this  use  reflected  for  the  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple by  either  the  newspapers  or  the  stage.  Moreover,  the 
consentient  use  of  men  of  letters  everywhere,  of  writers  and 
scholars  whose  preeminence  has  been  recognized,  is  some- 
times blurred  by  the  innovations  of  individuals.  A  writer 
of  English  race  has  generally  taken  more  liberties  with  his 
mother  tongue  than  a  writer  of  Latin  race.  The  freedom  of 
EngUsh  has  led  some  scholars  even  to  deny  the  reality  of  an 
English  good  use.  Finding  in  every  use  of  English  the 
scientific  interest  of  unconscious  changes  according  to  phys- 
ical tendencies  and  of  conscious  changes  according  to  social 
tendencies,  they  question  the  authority  by  which  any  one 
use  is  made  superior  to  the  others.  But  it  remains  true  in 
EngUsh,  only  less  than  in  some  other  languages,  that  the 
effect  alike  of  popular  lapse  and  of  the  innovation  of  indi- 
viduals is  always  checked,  and  sometimes  counteracted,  by 
conservative  custom.  This  custom,  the  consensus  of  those 
whose  knowledge  of  the  language  and  skill  in  its  use  give 
them  professional  assurance,  does  in  fact  rule  the  mass  of 
writers,  and  is  in  fact  generally  recorded  in  dictionaries.  For 
being  less  uniform  and  less  conservative,  the  authority  of 
usage  in  English  is  less  strong,  indeed,  but  not  less  real. 

Difficulty  or  doubt  as  to  usage  after  all  is  rare.  Our  dic- 
tionaries of  to-day  are  so  much  truer  to  their  function  and 
so  much  sounder  in  scholarship  than  some  compiled  in  the 
last  century,  and  they  are  so  frequently  revised,  that  no 
one  need  be  often  in  doubt  for  lack  of  authoritative  record. 
For  correction  or  confirmation  the  dictionary  is  quite  ade- 
quate to  ordinary  need.  As  to  the  acquiring  of  good  use, 
that,  in  language  as  in  other  social  intercourse,  is  by  good 
breeding   and    good    company.     A   man   may   be   correct 


REVISION  OF  WORDS  83 

without  scientific  scholarship.  Even  the  converse  is  pos- 
sible, that  a  man  may  have  much  science  in  his  language 
without  habitual  correctness.  And  the  cultivation  of  cor- 
rectness, the  conscious  refining  of  speech,  progresses  not 
more  by  consultation  of  dictionaries  than  by  listening  and 
by  reading. 

h.   PRECISION 

Attention  to  usage  means  more  than  conformity.  It  is 
the  first  step  toward  a  larger  end,  precision.  Usage  is  no 
more  important  for  sureness  of  communication  in  a  given 
case  than  for  a  habit  of  exactness.  As  vagueness  is  usually 
risked  in  the  use  of  slang,  so  recourse  to  a  dictionary  for  cor- 
rectness makes  one  aware  of  synonyms,  and  so  leads  to  dis- 
crimination. Every  choice  of  a  particular  word  from  its 
group  of  synonyms  is  an  exercise  of  thought  and  promotes 
truth  of  expression.  To  choose  a  word  is  to  distinguish  an 
idea  from  a  group  of  related  ideas;  that  is,  to  sound  one's 
intention.  In  this  way  revision  clarifies  thinking;  and  the 
habitual  use  of  a  dictionary  leads  quite  beyond  social  habit 
to  individual  grasp. 

For  language  is  not  a  set  of  fixed  symbols,  each  corre- 
sponding to  one  thing,  idea,  emotion,  or  action,  and  to  no 
other.  Almost  any  common  idea  is  represented  by  several, 
perhaps  many,  words;  and  of  these  words  some  apply  also 
to  other  ideas.  A  word  once  applied  to  one  idea  has  been 
gradually  extended  to  another;  or  conversely,  a  word  once 
appHed  to  a  whole  class  has  come  to  be  limited  to  a  single 
thiag.  Again,  an  idea,  as  it  is  developed  in  new  aspects, 
associates  to  itself  other  words.  So  language  grows;  and  so 
our  words  are  not  merely  single  signs  with  no  other  connec- 
tion, but  rather  groups  clustering  about  a  central  idea  of 
which  each  emphasizes  some  one  part  or  aspect  more  than 
another.  So  precision  comes  from  choosing  out  of  a  group 
the  word  that  most  nearly  expresses  the  desired  shade  of 


84  THE  TECHNIC  OF  REVISION  IN  DETAIL 

meaning.  And  the  constant  overlapping  of  groups,  though 
at  first  it  increases  the  labor  of  choice,  also  increases  its 
profit.  From  among  the  many  words  that  surround  an  idea, 
that  one  must  be  chosen  which  comes  nearest  to  the  par- 
ticular application  desired;  and  this  choosing  of  the  right 
word  for  the  particular  place  (1)  gives  the  word  a  new  sharp- 
ness in  the  mind,  (2)  adds  other  words  to  the  vocabulary, 
and  so  (3)  broadens  the  whole  idea. 

The  magnitude  of  the  vocabulary  surrounding  any  com- 
mon general  idea  can  hardly  be  appreciated  without  a 
glance  at  such  works  as  Roget's  Thesaurus  of  English  Words 
and  Phrases  or  March's  Thesaurus  Dictionary  of  the  English 
Language.  Their  object  is,  instead  of  separating  words 
according  to  their  particular  applications,  to  group  them 
according  to  their  general  meanings.  Such  groups,  though 
at  first  sight  discouraging,  should  rather  be  stimulating. 
They  are  compiled,  not  to  be  learned  entire,  but  to  be  chosen 
from.  No  man's  vocabulary  ever  included  more  than  a 
small  fraction  of  the  dictionary;  but  every  man's  vocabulary 
needs  the  dictionary  to  define  and  to  broaden  his  thinking. 

C.   CONCRETENESS 

It  is  evident  from  any  group  of  synonyms  that  words 
differ  in  extent  of  meaning,  some  being  more  general,  others 
more  specific.  Precision,  of  course,  demands  the  most 
specific  word  applicable  to  the  given  case.  But  of  two 
synonyms  equally  specific  one  may  be  more  concrete,  i.e., 
more  suggestive  of  such  physical  sensations  as  sound,  motion, 
touch,  etc.  By  more  directly  evoking  images  these  are  more 
vivid.  In  defining  an  idea  or  in  generalizing  about  it  our 
words  must  be  abstract;  in  illustrating  it  and  bringing  it 
home  they  should  be  concrete  (page  53).  Abstract  terms 
such  as  opacity  and  irritability  are  necessary  for  definition, 


REVISION  OF   WORDS  85 

and  for  such  formulation  they  are  sufficient;  for  full  presen- 
tation we  need  such  concrete  words  as  murky  and  grumble. 
Concrete  words,  though  less  extensive,  are  more  intensive. 
They  usually  have  more  associations;  they  are,  as  we  say, 
richer.  For  this  very  reason  they  may  not  by  themselves  be 
sufficient  for  precision;  but  they  are  none  the  less  necessary 
for  appealing  to  the  imagination.  To  imagine  the  idea  at 
work,  to  have  it  called  up  before  the  mental  vision  in  definite 
images,  is  very  helpful  toward  understanding  it,  is  even 
sometimes  necessary.  Just  as  the  idea  of  a  paragraph  must 
be  developed  by  instances  and  illustrations,  so  in  detail  the 
choice  of  words  must  consider  not  only  precision,  but  also 
concreteness. 

During  his  sickness  the  public  consternation  was  expressed  in 
the  habits  of  the  citizens;  and  their  idleness  and  despondency 
occasioned  a  general  scarcity  in  the  capital  of  the  East.  —  Gibbon, 
The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  Chapter  XLIII. 

This  statement  of  what  was  felt  during  the  illness  of  the 
the  emperor  Justinian  is  bare  and  cold  because,  though  pre- 
cise, it  is  entirely  abstract.  The  facts  can  be  brought  home 
only  by  being  imagined  as  sounds,  gestures,  attitudes, 
actions,  looks,  and  expressed  in  corresponding  concrete 
terms  of  physical  sensations.  What  did  men  do?  How  did 
they  look?  Furthermore,  the  meaning  of  a  word  includes 
both  its  denotation,  specific  meaning,  or  definition,  and  its 
connotation,  concrete  associations,  or  imagery.  Care  for 
the  one  is  precision;  care  for  the  other,  concreteness.  For 
further  discussion  of  concreteness  see  Chapter  IV.  i.  3. 


86  TYPICAL  FORMS  OF  ESSAY 


III.  TYPICAL  FORMS  OF  ESSAY  * 

Various  forms  of  discussion  in  literature  are  grouped  gen- 
erally under  the  term  essay.  Of  all  literary  forms  essay  is 
the  least  definite.  The  word  means  merely  a  trial,  or  sketch; 
and  the  thing  has  varied  in  form  from  Bacon  to  Addison,  and 
from  Lamb  to  Macaulay.  Really  the  term  covers  more  than 
one  literary  form;  but  it  can  be  divided  more  surely  after 
taking  account  of  its  general  meaning.  Vague  though  it  is, 
it  nevertheless  represents  a  certain  general  attitude  of  mind 
and  method  of  writing.  First,  essays  of  all  kinds  deal,  how- 
ever variously,  with  ideas.  Their  common  goal  is  less  to 
suggest  or  represent  life  as  it  comes  to  us  through  our  five 
senses  than  to  comment  on  life,  to  explain  its  underlying 
principles,  to  set  forth  the  writer's  ideas.  However  specific 
and  concrete  it  may  sometimes  be  in  detail,  its  goal  is  some 
general,  abstract  idea,  some  principle  or  proposition,  in  a 
word,  some  idea.  "Men  fear  death,"  says  Bacon  at  the  be- 
ginning of  an  essay,  "as  children  fear  to  go  in  the  dark." 
This  is  an  idea,  a  thought,  a  reasoning  from  experience.  His 
little  essay  on  Death,  though  it  has  concrete  instances,  is 
planned  to  set  forth  certain  ideas.  So  each  of  Emerson's  es- 
says, abundant  though  some  of  them  are  in  concrete  descrip- 
tive detail,  sets  forth  certain  ideas  concerning  Friendship, 
or  Books,  or  Eloquence,  etc.  Each  has  for  its  goal  something 
abstract  and  general,  not  a  reflection  of  life  as  in  a  story  or 
play,  but  a  reflection  on  life.  Lowell's  essay  On  a  Cer- 
tain Condescension  in  Foreigners  begins  with  anecdote  and 
abounds  in  description;  but  its  purpose  is  to  enforce  upon 
the  reader  his  reflections,  his  ideas,  concerning  the  attitude 
of  foreigners  toward  our  country.  Many  of  Addison's 
essays,  especially  the  De  Coverley  papers,  are  very  largely 

1  From  the  author's  Writing  and  Speaking. 


TYPICAL   FORMS   OF  ESSAY  87 

descriptive;  but  they  are  habitually  led  from,  or  led  up  to, 
an  abstract  idea  which  serves  as  a  text,  or  proposition  for 
the  whole.  Number  107  begins:  "The  reception,  manner 
of  attendance,  undisturbed  freedom  and  quiet,  which  I  meet 
with  here  in  the  country  have  confirmed  me  in  the  opinion  I 
always  had  that  the  general  corruption  of  manners  in  serv- 
ants is  owing  to  the  conduct  of  masters."  Number  110 
passes  from  the  haunted  walk  near  Sir  Roger's  house  to  the 
general  belief  in  ghosts.  Number  112  begins:  ''I  am  always 
very  well  pleased  with  a  country  Sunday,  and  think,  if  keep- 
ing holy  the  seventh  day  were  only  a  human  institution,  it 
would  be  the  best  method  that  could  have  been  thought  of 
for  the  polishing  and  civilizing  of  mankind."  Of  course 
critical  essays,  such  as  Macaulay's,  are  evidently  devoted 
to  the  developing  of  ideas.  In  general,  then,  an  essay  is  a 
discussion  of  ideas. 

This  being  the  object  of  an  essay,  its  method  is  generally 
by  paragraphs,  as  in  a  speech.  As  to  its  form,  indeed,  an 
essay  might  roughly  be  called  a  speech  in  writing;  for  both 
proceed  generally  by  paragraphs.  The  difference  between 
the  two  is  the  difference  between  persuasion  and  exposition. 
True,  either  speech  or  essay  may  persuade,  and  either  may 
expound;  but  when  our  main  object  is  persuasion  we  prefer 
to  speak  if  we  can,  and  when  the  main  object  is  explanation 
we  prefer  to  write.  So  with  the  audience.  If  we  are  to  be 
stirred,  we  had  rather  hear;  if  we  are  above  all  to  under- 
stand clearly,  we  had  rather  read,  had  rather,  as  we  say, 
have  the  thing  in  black  and*  white.  We  may  revise  our 
general  definition,  therefore,  by  calling  an  essay  an  exposi- 
tion of  ideas.  For  the  object  of  an  essay  is  usually  more 
than  enumeration  of  parts,  more  than  statement  of  facts. 
An  essay  aims  from  the  parts  to  interpret  the  whole,  from 
the  facts  to  show  the  underlying  principle.  An  essay  pro- 
ceeds by  paragraphs  because  it  is  a  process  of  thought. 


88  TYPICAL  FORMS  OF  ESSAY 

Finally,  then,  an  essay  may  be  defined  as  an  exposition  by 
paragraphs  of  a  single  controlling  idea. 

1.  The  Two  Kinds  of  Essay 

On  the  basis  of  this  definition,  essays  may  be  divided  into 
two  classes,  according  as  they  follow  the  paragraph  method 
of  exposition  more  or  less  strictly.  When  the  author's  main 
concern  is  the  underlying  idea  and  the  leading  of  other 
people  to  accept  it,  he  casts  his  essay  in  the  stricter  way  of 
exposition  by  definite,  carefully  emphasized  paragraphs.  His 
paragraphs,  though  they  may  be  less  full,  are  as  definite  as 
those  of  a  speech,  and,  as  in  a  speech,  they  are  arranged  in 
progressive,  logical  order.  When,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
author  cares  more  to  show  his  idea  concretely  as  he  sees  it 
at  work  in  life,  when,  instead  of  developing  it  by  definite 
stages,  he  is  content  to  suggest  it,  when  in  other  words  his 
aim  is  rather  to  interest  his  readers  in  it  than  to  reason  it 
out  with  them,  —  then  he  casts  his  essay  in  a  looser  form. 
His  paragraphs  are  not  so  clear-cut  as  the  paragraphs  of  a 
speech;  for  some  of  them  are  largely  descriptive,  and  the 
whole  essay  has  less  logical  progress.  Both  classes  of  essays 
deal  with  ideas;  but  the  one  reasons  them  out  in  a  series  of 
expository  paragraphs,  and  the  other  partly  reasons  them 
out  and  partly  suggests  them  by  description.  Thus  we  may 
divide  essays,  according  to  their  method  of  composition,  into 
stricter  and  looser;  and  the  ear-mark  is  the  handling  of  the 
paragraph. 

The  stricter,  expository  type  is  clear  in  Bacon,  our  first 
great  essayist  and  still  among  our  greatest. 

OF  CEREMONIES  AND  RESPECTS 

He  that  is  only  real  had  need  have  exceeding  great  parts  of 
virtue,  as  the  stone  had  need  to  be  rich  that  is  set  without  foil. 
But  if  a  man  mark  it  well,  it  is  in  praise  and  commendation  of  men 


BACON  89 

as  it  is  in  gettings  and  gains.  For  the  proverb  is  true,  that  light 
gains  make  heavy  purses;  for  light  gains  come  thick,  whereas  great 
come  but  now  and  then.  So  it  is  true  that  small  matters  win  great 
commendation,  because  they  are  continually  in  use  and  in  note, 
whereas  the  occasion  of  any  great  virtue  cometh  but  on  festivals. 
Therefore  it  doth  much  add  to  a  man's  reputation,  and  is,  as  Queen 
Isabella  said,  hke  perpetual  letters  commendatory,  to  have  good 
forms.  To  attain  them  it  almost  sufficeth  not  to  despise  them;  for 
so  shall  a  man  observe  them  in  others,  and  let  him  trust  himself 
with  the  rest.  For  if  he  labour  too  much  to  express  them,  he  shall 
lose  their  grace,  which  is  to  be  natural  and  unaffected.  Some 
men's  behaviour  is  hke  a  verse  wherein  every  syllable  is  measured. 
How  can  a  man  comprehend  great  matters  that  breaketh  his  mind 
too  much  to  small  observations?  Not  to  use  ceremonies  at  all  is 
to  teach  others  not  to  use  them  again,  and  so  diminish  respect  to 
himself.  Especially  they  be  not  to  be  omitted  to  strangers  and 
formal  natures.  But  the  dwelling  upon  them  and  exalting  them 
above  the  moon  is  not  only  tedious,  but  doth  diminish  the  faith 
and  credit  of  him  that  speaks.  And  certainly  there  is  a  kind  of 
conveying  of  effectual  and  imprinting  passages  amongst  compU- 
ments  which  is  of  singular  use,  if  a  man  can  hit  upon  it.  Amongst 
a  man's  peers  a  man  shall  be  sure  of  famiharity;  and  therefore  it 
is  good  a  Httle  to  keep  state.  Amongst  a  man's  inferiors  one  shall 
be  sure  of  reverence;  and  therefore  it  is  good  a  httle  to  be  famihar. 
He  that  is  too  much  in  any  thing,  so  that  he  giveth  another  occa- 
sion of  satiety,  maketh  himself  cheap.  To  apply  one's  self  to  others 
is  good,  so  it  be  with  demonstration  that  a  man  doth  it  upon  regard, 
and  not  upon  facihty.  It  is  a  good  precept  generally  in  seconding 
another  yet  to  add  somewhat  of  one's  own:  as,  if  you  will  grant 
his  opinion,  let  it  be  with  some  distinction;  if  you  will  follow  his 
motion,  let  it  be  with  condition;  if  you  allow  his  counsel,  let  it  be 
with  alleging  further  reason.  Men  had  need  beware  how  they  be 
too  perfect  in  comphments;  for  be  they  never  so  sufficient  other- 
wise, their  enviers  will  be  sure  to  give  them  that  attribute,  to  the 
disadvantage  of  their  greater  virtues.  It  is  loss  also  in  business  to 
be  too  full  of  respects,  or  to  be  curious  in  observing  times  and  oppor- 
tunities.   Solomon  saith,  He  thai  considereth  the  wind  shall  not  sow. 


90  TYPICAL  FORMS  OF  ESSAY 

and  he  that  looketh  to  the  cloud  shall  not  reap.  A  wise  man  will  make 
more  opportunities  than  he  finds.  Men's  behaviom"  should  be  like 
their  apparel,  not  too  strait  or  point  device,  but  free  for  exercise 
or  motion. 

This  is  clearly  systematic;  but  where  are  the  paragraphs? 
The  answer  is  in  the  habit  of  Bacon's  mind.  He  was  con- 
tent to  formulate  in  concise,  suggestive  summary.  He  had 
none  of  the  public  speaker's  wish  to  develop  an  idea  fully. 
He  has  very  little  amplification.  Thus  for  the  average  man 
his  essays  make  too  hard  reading.  In  formulating  an  idea 
concisely  he  has  never  been  surpassed,  and  very  rarely 
equaled;  but  in  expanding  an  idea  —  that  he  leaves  to  the 
reader.  Thus  Bacon's  readers  are  limited  to  the  intellectual. 
Thus  his  paragraphs  are  undeveloped.  Instead  of  a  full 
paragraph,  he  gives  a  few  sentences,  sometimes  only  one. 
In  the  essay  above,  the  first  undeveloped  paragraph  ends  to 
have  good  forms.  For  somewhat  fuller  paragraph  develop- 
ment see  the  essays  on  Simulation  and  Dissimulation,  Envy, 
and  Friendship.  Bacon,  then,  wrote  in  the  strictly  exposi- 
tory type  of  essay;  but  did  not  usually  develop  his  para- 
graphs. 

a.  LOOSER  ESSAY,   THE  SPECTATOR  TYPE 

In  marked  contrast  to  this  is  a  form  of  essay  developed 
in  the  eighteenth  century.  Steele,  Addison,  Swift,  and  their 
friends  addressed  their  essays,  not  to  the  intellectual  few, 
but  to  the  larger  public;  and  while  Swift  commonly  used 
the  logical  development  by  paragraphs,  Steele  and  Addison 
struck  out  in  the  Spectator  sl  new  line.  Though  their  object 
was  to  circulate  truer  ideas  of  life,  they  thought  that  a 
better  way  was  to  awaken  and  sustain  interest.  To  this 
end  the  Spectator  papers  depend  largely  on  description;  and 
for  this  reason  they  often  have  very  slight  logical  progress 
and  rather  loose  paragraphs.     Though  longer  than  most  of 


EDINBURGH  REVIEW  TYPE  91 

Bacon^s  essays,  these  papers  are  still  short,  much  shorter 
usually  than  the  essays  of  to-day.  But  they  are  not  short 
by  Bacon's  intellectual  method  of  compression;  they  are 
short  because  the  thought  is  not  sustained  and  carried  out. 
Rather  the  essays  are  pleasantly  suggestive.  They  may  be 
even  fragmentary;  for  they  aimed  to  keep  the  character  of 
good  conversation.  This  type  of  easy,  fluent,  picturesque 
comment  on  life  gained  enduring  popularity.  Not  only  was 
the  Spectator  imitated  by  later  journals,  but  outside  of  regu- 
lar periodical  publications  its  form  of  essay  was  followed 
long  after  by  Lamb,  Irving,  Hazlitt,  and  Lowell,  and  is  still 
the  most  popular  form  of  essay  to-day. 

6.    STRICTER    ESSAY,    THE    EDINBURGH    REVIEW    TYPE 

Early  in  the  nineteenth  century  the  Edinburgh  Review  was 
founded  for  more  serious,  thorough,  and  sustained  expo- 
sition. The  idea  was  to  provide  systematic  criticism  of 
literature,  and,  through  that,  of  life.  Francis  Jeffrey,  the 
first  editor,  had  a  remarkable  faculty  of  exposition.  He 
loved  to  think  a  thing  through,  stage  by  stage,  to  a  conclu- 
sion. Though  his  diction  is  often  strong  and  suggestive,  his 
chief  excellence  is  his  grasp  of  the  paragraph.  The  para- 
graph became  in  his  hands  a  clearer  and  more  logical  unit  of 
composition  than  had  been  at  all  common  in  English.  This 
trick  of  the  paragraph  was  learned  through  apprenticeship  to 
Jeffrey  by  the  greatest  of  the  Edinburgh  reviewers,  Macaulay. 
Macaulay's  essays  are  the  most .  familiar  examples  of  the 
type.  They  are  longer  than  the  Spectator  essays  —  often 
twenty  times  as  long  —  because  their  audience  and  their 
object  are  different.  They  are  not  only  critical;  they  are 
systematic  and  sustained.  The  books  that  they  review  are 
treated  merely  as  points  of  departure  for  an  extended,  sys- 
tematic treatment  of  the  subject.  The  Edinburgh  reviewers 
wished  their  readers  to  know,  not  only  the  worth  of  a  new 


92  TYPICAL  FORMS  OF  ESSAY 

book,  but  the  worth  of  its  ideas  in  relation  to  all  the  best 
thought  upon  the  subject.  They  wished  to  carry  a  reader 
through  a  definite  course  of  thought  to  a  definite  conclusion. 
He  might  accept  it  or  reject  it;  but  at  least  he  had  been 
made  to  think.  Thus  many  of  Macaulay's  paragraphs  have 
the  clearness  and  emphasis  of  the  paragraphs  of  a  speech. 
Whether  they  are  argumentative  —  and  they  often  are  —  or 
expository,  they  carry  us  through  a  progress  of  thought. 
Not  content  to  throw  out  ideas  or  to  suggest  them  by  de- 
scriptive detail,  they  discuss  ideas  fully  and  progressively. 
This  type  of  essay  was  followed  later  by  Cardinal  Newman, 
Matthew  Arnold,  and  so  many  others  of  recent  times  that 
when  we  hear  the  word  essay  to-day  we  think  naturally  of  an 
orderly,  logical  development  by  paragraphs. 


CHAPTER  III 
PERSUASION 

As  discussion  goes  beyond  information,  so  beyond  discus- 
sion reaches  persuasion.  Information,  discussion,  persua- 
sion, are  not  three  component  parts  of  rhetoric,  but  three 
degrees.  Information  passes  over  into  discussion,  discussion 
into  persuasion.  The  processes  overlap  as  each  leads  on  to 
the  next.  Discussion  is  information  —  and  more;  persuasion 
is  discussion  —  and  more.  Persuasion  is  more  than  discus- 
sion in  that  it  is  appeal  for  assent  and  action.  Discussion 
seeks  to  elucidate;  persuasion  seeks  also  to  move.  This 
effort  to  move  men  may  be  incidental  or  additional  to  dis- 
cussion, or,  mce  versa,  it  may  subordinate  information  and 
discussion  to  itself,  may  be  the  constant  object  of  the  whole 
composition.  In  either  case  persuasion  pushes  farther  the 
means  already  studied  and  also  uses  means  of  its  own. 
Thus,  if  taken  in  the  largest  sense,  persuasion  covers  the 
whole  field  of  the  composition  of  ideas  (page  3),  or  of 
rhetoric  as  understood  by  the  ancients.  The  function 
of  rhetoric  as  defined  by  Aristotle  is  to  discover  in  any 
subject  the  possibiUties  and  means  of  persuasion. 

The  word  persuasion  is  used  not  only  of  the  process  of 
appeal,  but  also  of  its  result.  It  means,  not  only  persuad- 
ing, but  being  persuaded.  Thus  used,  it  is  often  contrasted 
with  conviction,  the  one  being  thought  of  as  the  result  of 
appeal  to  feeling,  the  other  as  the  result  of  appeal  to  reason. 
The  distinction  is  misleading  in  so  far  as  it  suggests  that 
feeling  and  reason  operate  separately  and  distinctly;  for  in 
fact  they  usually  work  together.     We  are  not  so  crudely 


94  FEELING  AND  REASON 

two-fold  that  it  is  easy  to  find  feeling  without  reason,  or 
reason  without  feeling.  Pure  reason  is  rather  an  abstract 
idea  than  a  fact  of  human  nature;  and  all  great  orators  have 
composed  accordingly.  Feeling,  again,  hardly  has  its  way 
among  civilized  people  without  at  least  some  show  of  rea- 
son. Shakespeare  is  true  to  human  nature  in  making  Mark 
Antony's  appeal  to  the  feelings  of  the  mob  in  form  argu- 
mentative. The  separation  of  address  to  reason  from  ad- 
dress to  feeling  may,  indeed,  have  some  use  in  analysis;  but 
in  actual  composition  it  is  impracticable  because  the  two  are 
inextricably  commingled.  Conviction  is  partial  persuasion. 
Certainly  the  aim  of  argument  is  to  convince;  but  it  is  not 
an  ultimate  aim,  nor  gained  by  processes  entirely  distinct 
from  appeal  to  feeling.  Feeling  and  reason  are  appealed  to, 
not  separately,  but  together;  and  all  the  means  of  appeal  are 
included  in  the  idea  of  persuasion.  Thus  argument  should 
be  thought  of  always  as  part  of  persuasion.  The  force  of 
argument  is  the  force  of  the  underlying  facts  and  of  their 
emphatic  and  coherent  arrangement;  the  force  of  eloquence 
is  rather  the  force  of  diction.  The  one  is  more  a  matter  of 
substance  and  structure,  the  other  more  a  matter  of  style. 
But  in  actual  composition  the  two  are  fused.  Style  cannot 
be  separated  from  substance  except  to  study  it  after  it  has 
been  uttered.  In  the  actual  uttering  it  is  not  something 
additional;  it  is  the  speaker  in  his  subject.  He  does  not 
add  feeling  to  reason;  he  urges  his  reasons  through  his 
feelings  upon  the  feelings  of  his  hearers.  He  speaks  as  a 
man  to  men. 

The  idea  of  persuasion  as  single,  entire,  not  divided  into 
two  separate  appeals,  opens  the  way  for  Aristotle's  still 
wider  saying  that  the  first  means  of  persuasion  is  the  speaker 
himself.  Persuasion  reaches  its  height  when  subject  and 
speaker  are  one,  when  the  man  is  possessed  by  the  subject. 
What  made  men  renounce  the  world  to  seek  misery  with 


THE  SPEAKER  95 

that  young  Italian  who  was  afterwards  called  St.  Francis 
of  Assisi?  Daniel  Webster  once  stood  in  Faneuil  Hall  and 
said:  "Gentlemen,  I  am  a  Whig,  a  Constitutional  Whig,  a 
Faneuil  Hall  Whig;  and,  if  you  break  up  the  Whig  party, 
where  am  I  to  go?"  "But,"  says  Wendell  Phillips,  "if  he 
had  been  five  feet,  three  —  !"  That  cry  of  Agrippa,  "With 
but  little  persuasion  thou  wouldst  fain  make  me  sl  Chris- 
tian," suggests  an  amazing  influence  of  personaUty,  as  the 
speaker  implies  in  his  famous  rejoinder.  In  its  lower  ranges 
also,  in  ordinary,  every-day  use,  persuasion  is  the  work  of  the 
whole  man.  It  is  knowledge  set  to  work,  energized  by 
a  person.  As  the  ancient  training  of  the  orator  focused  his 
whole  education,  so  persuasion  to-day  depends  on  far  more 
than  technical  skill  in  composition.  Fed  by  many  studies, 
it  is  in  the  last  analysis  the  expressive  force  of  personahty. 

But  though  the  indirect  training  for  persuasion  is  thus 
one's  whole  education,  direct  training  has  shown  none  the 
less  value  through  many  centuries.  No  field  of  composition 
has  been  longer  or  more  assiduously  studied;  in  none  is  the 
experience  of  masters  more  available  for  students.  Being 
almost  coextensive  with  civilized  society,  it  has  a  well  tested 
body  of  practical  precepts.  Some  of  these  have  been  dis- 
cussed sufficiently  in  preceding  pages;  of  the  others  most 
apply  to  the  general  processes  of  argument  and  the  particu- 
lar conditions  of  oral  address. 


I.  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

Argument  is  essentially  the  giving  of  reasons  for  or  against 
a  proposition.  The  word  is  both  general  and  particular; 
that  is,  it  means  either  one  reason  for  a  proposition  or  a 
whole  body  of  reasons  taken  together.  Whether  formal  or 
informal,  whether  incidental  or  controlling  a  whole  compo- 
sition, argument  is  always  held  to  a  single  proposition.    To 


96  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

argue  a  word  or  a  phrase  is  impossible.  The  Monroe  Doc- 
trinCy  State  Ownership  of  Railroads,  Compulsory  Military 
Service,  —  such  merely  topical  statement  may  be  sufficient 
for  profitable  discussion,  and  such  discussion  may  be  a  use- 
ful preliminary  to  argument  proper;  but  so  soon  as  discus- 
sion passes  into  persuasion,  so  soon  as  we  seek  to  win  assent, 
the  conclusion  must  be  fixed  in  a  definite  sentence  (page  38) : 
The  United  States  should  maintain  the  Monroe  Doctrine,  or 
The  United  States  should  establish  such-and-such  a  form  of 
military  service.  Argument  cannot  go  on,  much  less  come 
to  anything,  without  thus  fixing  its  object  in  a  definite 
proposition. 

1.  The  Finding  of  Arguments 

a.    GENERAL   CONSIDERATIONS 

For  argument,  even  more  than  for  information  or  general 
discussion,  research  needs  to  be  guided  by  reflection  (pages 
18,  37).  Instead  of  merely  accumulating,  the  investigator 
must  pause  repeatedly,  not  only  to  analyze  the  bearings  of 
material  already  in  hand,  but  also  to  raise  larger  questions. 
First  of  all,  the  proposition  should  be  scrutinized  in  the 
light  of  preliminary  investigation,  to  see  if  it  fairly  and  fully 
states  a  real  debate,  and,  if  not,  to  have  it  revised.  Then 
the  issues  that  bear  directly  on  this,  the  few  main  conten- 
tions on  which  the  argument  will  probably  turn,  should  be 
forecast  and  from  time  to  time  reviewed  in  the  light  of  fur- 
ther knowledge.  These  are  often  called  the  issues;  and  they 
cannot  be  discovered  by  investigation  without  thought. 
One  good  way  to  find  them,  instead  of  rashly  choosing  what 
lies  on  the  surface,  is  to  set  apart  the  common  ground,  the 
facts  as  to  which  there  can  be  no  dispute  and  the  conclu- 
sions from  them  admitted  by  both  sides.^     This  common 

^  In  legal  practise  the  common  ground  and  the  issues  are  sometimes 
determined  by  preliminary  "pleadings,"  which  are  worth  the  investi- 
gation of  students  interested  in  the  study  of  law. 


THE  FINDING  OF  ARGUMENTS  97 

ground  cannot,  indeed,  be  determined  without  investigation; 
but  it  cannot  be  determined  by  investigation  alone.  It 
should  be  forecast  and  revised  by  reflection. 

There  is  often  gain  of  time  also  in  reflecting  on  how  far 
the  proof  must  be  carried  for  sufficiency.  Is  it  enough  to 
prove  this  proposal  impracticable,  or  must  the  argument  go 
on  to  show  one  that  would  be  practicable?  Another  useful 
reflection  is  on  the  opponent's  probable  line  of  attack.  This 
helps  to  gauge  the  sufficiency  of  one's  material,  and  may 
even  change  the  forecast  of  the  issues.  In  such  ways  one 
must  so  question  his  own  mind  as  to  bring  to  bear,  not  only 
the  material  of  his  present  investigation,  but  the  whole  fund 
of  his  experience.  To  promote  thorough  questioning  of 
both,  the  ancients  had  a  regular  system  for  determining  in 
any  case  the  status,  or  fundamental  character.  The  status 
considered  in  its  legal  aspects  (status  legalis)  is  beyond  our 
scope.  The  status  considered  in  its  general  aspects  of  rea- 
son, as  an  affair  of  common  argument  (status  rationalis),  was 
determined  in  the  classical  system  by  asking  oneself  how 
far  the  case  hinged  (1)  on  fact,  on  whether  such-and-such 
things  had  happened,  or  (2)  on  definition,  i.e.,  on  what 
genus  properly  included  (page  24)  the  differentia  in  question, 
or  (3)  more  broadly  on  the  interpretation  of  facts  and  defi- 
nitions admitted  by  both  sides.  Though  most  cases  need  to 
be  looked  at  from  all  these  three  points  of  view,  in  most 
there  will  be  found  a  decided  predominance  of  one;  and  fore- 
cast of  this  will  direct  the  emphasis  of  the  whole  argimient, 
will  tell  where  to  throw  one's  weight.  Cicero  ^  sums  up  the 
consideration  of  status  somewhat  differently,  and  very  sug- 
gestively, in  three  practical  questions:  (1)  What  kind  of 
case  is  it  in  general  (natura  causoe),  i.e.,  of  fact  or  of  inter- 
pretation? (2)  On  what  does  it  turn,  i.e.,  what  is  the  point 

*  De  Oratore,  Book  II,  xxiv-xxxi. 


98  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

but  for  which  there  would  be  no  debate  (quidfaciat  causam; 
id  est,  quo  svblato  controversia  stare  non  possit)7  (3)  Why  is 
it  disputed?  How  does  the  dispute  arise  (quid  veniat  in 
indicium)?  In  a  word,  investigation  of  the  facts  must  be 
constantly  directed  by  reflection  on  the  issues. 

h.    EVIDENCE,    THE   ARGUMENTATIVE   USE    OF   FACTS 

The  investigation  of  facts,  in  its  main  aspects  of  author- 
ity, collation,  and  classification,  has  already  been  discussed 
(pages  11-16).  To  verify  facts,  to  distinguish  them  from 
inferences,  and  to  verify  our  own  inferences,  —  these  are 
tasks  not  only  of  argument,  but  to  some  extent  of  all  dis- 
cussion. In  all  discussion,  even  in  information,  the  funda- 
mental question  is,  What  are  the  facts?  But  in  argument 
facts  are  relevant  only  in  so  far  as  they  tend  to  establish 
proof.  Discussion  may  suggest;  argument  must  prove.  Dis- 
cussion may  be  inclusive;  argument  is  held  to  a  single  propo- 
sition. Facts  used  to  prove  are  called  evidence.  Is  the 
evidence  on  this  point  sufficient?  Is  the  point  a  valid  infer- 
ence from  the  evidence,  or  may  the  evidence  be  used  to 
prove  something  different?  In  argument  these  are  the  par- 
ticular forms  taken  by  those  fimdamental  questions  of  all 
research:  (1)  What  are  the  facts?  and  (2)  What  do  they 
mean?  They  are  well  phrased  in  the  two-fold  challenge  of 
debate:  (1)  How  do  you  know?  and  (2)  What  of  it?  How 
do  you  know?  can  be  met  only  by  making  sure  that  the 
facts  accumulated  by  research  are  really  evidence. 

The  general  tests  of  evidence  given  at  page  13  may  be 
supplemented  as  follows: 

(1)  In  general,  since  it  is  notorious  that  few  people  are 
habitually  accurate  observers  beyond  the  rather  narrow 
range  of  their  interests  or  preoccupations,  anybody's  report 
of  his  observations  should  be  analyzed,  so  far  as  possible, 
into  its  particulars  for  scrutiny.    That  is,  testimony  should 


THE   FINDING  OF   ARGUMENTS  99 

be  considered,  never  in  bulk,  but  always  in  detail,  point 
by  point. 

(2)  Then,  is  the  witness  intelligent,  of  established  charac- 
ter, responsible  for  his  statements,  clear  from  suspicion  of 
bias  or  self-interest,  and  consistent? 

(3)  Further,  is  the  testimony  corroborated  or  does  it  stand 
alone?  Is  there  any  testimony  of  fairly  equal  moral  and 
intellectual  weight  to  contravene  it? 

(4)  Testimony  given  unwittingly  (i.e.,  without  conscious- 
ness of  its  import),  or  against  the  bias  or  interest  of  the 
witness,  may  have  thereby  an  added  significance. 

(5)  Particular  value  attaches  also  to  the  testimony  of  a 
witness  *  expert  in  the  observation  of  the  class  of  facts 
involved. 

Practically  this  means  seek  evidence  that  cannot  easily 
be  challenged.  Most  argument  outside  of  law  courts  being 
based  on  evidence  in  print,  sufficient  testimony  to  fact  is 
practically  (1)  the  primary  publications,  the  original  docu- 
ments (subject  to  the  tests  of  credibility  above),  or  as 
far  back  toward  them  as  research  can  reasonably  extend; 
(2)  authority,  i.e.,  accepted  sources  of  information,  as  stan- 
dard gazetteers,  publications  of  government  bureaus,  etc.  It 
is  futile  to  argue  about  forestry  or  the  adulteration  of  food 
products  from  an  article  in  a  popular  magazine  when  every 
large  library  contains  the  reports  of  the  Department  of 
Agriculture;  to  take  statistics  about  the  Philippines  from  a 
campaign  speech  when  one's  opponent  may  counter  with 
the  reports  of  the  Philippine  Commission;  to  be  content  with 
information  about  the  Siberian  Railway  from  an  article 

1  By  this  is  not  meant  "expert  testimony,"  which  may  be  the  opinion 
of  some  one  recognized  as  an  authority  in  the  matter  involved;  e.g.  the 
report  of  a  physician  to  the  effect  that  a  certain  death  was  caused  by 
chloroform,  or  of  a  bank  teller  to  the  effect  that  a  certain  signature 
was  made  by  a  certain  man. 


100  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

written  to  entertain,  when  the  latest  gazetteers  and  the  pub- 
lications of  geographical  societies  furnish  statistics  far  less 
liable  to  dispute. 

2.  The  Analysis  of  Argument 

Every  extended  argument  supports  its  proposition  by 
many  reasons.  Of  these,  some  are  directly  reasons  for  the 
proposition,  others  are  reasons  for  these  reasons,  and  be- 
neath all,  as  the  basis  for  every  inference,  are  the  individual 
facts.  Thus  the  simplest  and  most  complete  method  of 
analyzing  the  purely  logical  bearings  of  an  argument  is  as 
follows:  (1)  to  write  at  the  head  of  a  large  sheet  the  propo- 
sition to  be  proved;  (2)  to  write  underneath,  numbering 
them  A,  B,  C,  etc.,  with  spaces  between,  those  reasons  for 
the  proposition  which  seem  to  be  the  largest,  those  main 
reasons  that  include  minor  reasons  within  themselves  and 
support  the  proposition  directly;  (3)  to  write  underneath  each 
of  these,  numbering  them  1,  2,  3,  etc.,  in  the  blank  spaces, 
the  reasons  for  this  larger  reason;  (4)  to  write  imdemeath  1, 
or  2,  or  3,  numbering  them  a,  b,  c,  etc.,  the  facts  that  in  turn 
go  to  prove  this.  This  sort  of  analysis  shows  at  a  glance 
both  the  whole  line  of  argument  and  the  bearing  of  each 
part,  even  of  each  separate  fact.  It  shows  which  are  the 
main  arguments,  which  are  the  minor  ones.  It  shows  how 
every  bit  of  the  material  bears,  whether  as  a  main  point 
supporting  the  proposition  directly,  or  as  a  minor  point  sup- 
porting one  of  these  main  points.  It  is  a  complete  chart  or 
guide  to  the  material.  After  it  has  been  thought  out  and 
revised,  it  will  furnish  a  complete  index  to  the  notes,  for 
these  can  be  numbered  and  grouped  accordingly;  but  it  is 
no  less  apphcable  to  the  informal  argument  of  every  day, 
such  as  the  following: 

You  ought  to  study  medicine  in  New  York,  where  the  greatest 
professors  are  and  the  best  hospitals,  not  in  this  small  city  just 


THE  ANALYSIS  OF  ARGUMENT   '  ■'  >'''^  •  lOl 

because  this  would  be  cheaper.    Do  not  be  "  penny  .^^i&Wd.iiciiiiid  • 
foolish." 

What  this  informal,  every-day  argument  amounts  to 
logically,  and  what  its  relations  are,  can  be  seen  clearly  by 
this  system  of  analysis: 

Proposition:  You  ought  to  study  medicine  in  New  York. 

Reason  A.  New  York  has  better  professors. 
Reason  B.   New  York  has  better  hospitals. 
Reason  C.   That  New  York  would  cost  more  is  not  a  sufficient 
objection. 
Reason  for  C.   1.  The  ultimate  gain  would  make  the  present 
expense  cheap. 

Of  this  argument  two  points  (A  and  B)  are  positive,  or 
direct,  and  the  third  (C)  negative,  or  indirect  (i.e.,  argu- 
ment by  refutation).  The  argument  on  the  other  side  would 
probably  run  in  conversation  as  follows: 

I  do  not  need  to  be  told  that  the  New  York  hospitals  are  the  best; 
but  a  man  can  not  get  more  than  so  much  experience  in  two  years, 
and  there  is  enough  here  to  keep  me  busy.  As  to  professors,  they 
are  not  better  in  New  York;  they  are  only  better  known.  Smith 
here  knows  all  there  is  to  know  about  anatomy,  and  he  will  give 
me  more  of  his  time  than  any  professor  in  New  York  can  ever  give 
to  any  single  man  in  those  large  classes.  Besides,  I  can  not  go  to 
New  York  without  borrowing  of  father.  If  I  stay  here,  I  shall  be 
independent;  and  he  would  hke  to  have  me  stay,  though  he  would 
not  refuse  me  the  money  to  go. 

By  the  same  system  of  tabular  analysis  this  arranges  it- 
self as  follows: 

I  ought  not  to  study  medicine  in  New  York. 

A.  The  fact  that  New  York  hospitals  are  better  is  not  important. 
1.  The  hospital  here  will  give  me  all  the  experience  I  can 
assimilate  in  two  years. 


10^  ■>  >' "  •'       THJS?  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

■'  *'* ' ,  •"  B.'  The'  a&ser'tion  that  the  New  York  professors  are  better  is  not 
true  in  the  sense  in  which  the  word  is  used. 

1.  Though  they  are  more  eminent,  they  know  no  more  about 

their  subjects. 
X.  Professor  Smith  here  knows  all  anatomy. 

2.  Even  if  they  did  know  more,  they  could  teach  any  given 

man  rather  less  than  more, 

X.  The  size  of  the  class  precludes  much  attention  to  the 
individual. 

C.  The  "penny  wise,  pound  foolish"  proverb  is  not  in  point. 

1.  I  could  not  go  to  New  York  without  borrowing  money 

2.  By  borrowing  I  should  sacrifice  my  independence. 

3.  By  borrowing  I  should  impose  on  my  father's  generosity. 

D.  It  would  please  my  father  better,  if  I  did  not. 

Here,  as  often  in  debate,  the  reply  consists  largely  of 
refutation. 

But  suppose  the  first  speaker  persists  in  his  contention, 
reviewing  the  case,  and  adding  new  arguments  to  the  fol- 
lowing effect : 

You  ought  to  study  medicine  in  New  York. 
A.  New  York  has  better  teaching. 

1.  It  is  admitted  that  the  professors  are  more  eminent. 

2.  It  is  only  fair  to  presume  that  the  reputation  of  a  great 

school  demands,  and  its  endowments  secure,  the  best 
teaching. 

3.  The  argument  that  the  professors  are  merely  more  emi- 

nent, without  having  more  knowledge,  is  fallacious. 

a.  Eminence  makes  superiority  highly  probable. 

(1)  An  undeserved  name  cannot  be  held  long  in  the 
competition  of  a  great  city. 

b.  The  instance  of  Professor  Smith,  who  "knows  all 

there  is  to  know  about  anatomy,"  is  not  sufficient. 
(1)  It  is  only  one  case. 


THE  ANALYSIS  OF  ARGUMENT  103 

(2)  The  contention  assumes  that  the  science  of  anat- 

omy is  complete,  finished  forever;  and  this  is 
not  true. 

(3)  The  other  branches  of  study  are  still  more  sub- 

ject to  the  revision  of  recent  investigations. 

(a)  Physiology  is  yearly  made  more  exact. 

(b)  Therapeutics  undergo  perpetual  revision. 

(c)  Even  the  materia  medica  is  not  fixed. 

(4)  Only  the  large  schools  benefit  by  recent  discov- 

eries at  once. 
4.  The  advantage  of  the  small  school,  that  the  professors 
can  give  more  time  to  the  individual  student,  is  over- 
balanced by  the  advantages  of  the  large  school. 
a.  It  is  admitted  that  the  lectures  in  the  large  school  are 

at  least  equal. 
6.  The  teaching  of  the  individual  student  is  carried  on 
more  thoroughly  by  the  "quizzes"  of  the  large 
school  than  by  the  professor  in  the  small  school, 
c.  The  apphances  of  the  large  school,  as  models,  charts, 
specimens,  and  especially  dissecting  rooms,  are 
superior. 

B.  New  York  has  better  hospitals. 

1.  The  New  York  hospitals  offer  far  greater  variety  for 

clinics. 

2.  The  New  York  hospitals  show  the  latest  methods  in  both 

medicine  and  surgery. 

3.  The  assertion  that  a  man  may  learn  all  he  can  hold  from 

two  years  in  any  hospital  is  fallacious. 
a.  If  it  means  that  the  student  cannot  profit  by  variety 

and  by  superior  methods,  it  is  untrue. 
6.   It  ignores  the  superior  opportunity  for  appointment 

to  a  city  hospital  after  graduation. 

C.  The  lack  of  present  funds  is  not  a  sufficient  bar. 

1.  It  is  admitted  that  money  can  be  borrowed. 

2.  The  argument  for  independence  is  fallacious. 

a.  Independence  thus  gained  might  be  but  temporary. 


104  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

b.  Permanent  independence  is  promised  more  quickly 

by  superior  training. 

c.  It  is  open  to  you  to  borrow  at  interest. 

D.  The  present  gratification  of  your  father  is  not  a  strong  argu- 
ment. 

1.  Your  father  would  rather  forego  present  gratification  for 

the  future  gratification  of  greater  good  to  you. 
a.  This  appears  in  his  willingness  to  advance  you  money 
for  New  York. 

2.  Your  father  has  the  comfort  of  your  younger  brothers. 

3.  The  experience  of  your  elder  brother  shows  this. 

a.  Your  father  has  repeatedly  expressed  his  satisfaction 
at  your  elder  brother's  going  to  New  York  to  study 
engineering. 

6.  Your  brother  spent  nearly  as  much  time  in  the  com- 
pany of  his  family  during  vacations  as  he  could 
have  spent  if  he  had  studied  at  home. 

The  object  of  this  system  of  analysis  is  to  bring  every  bit 
of  material  into  some  definite  bearing.  It  makes  us  ask 
concerning  every  note,  Just  what  does  that  prove?  To  this 
end,  every  part  must  be  expressed  in  a  sentence.  Only  thus 
can  its  bearing  be  determined.  If  some  fact  will  not  fit  into 
the  system,  it  is  in  the  wrong  place,  or  its  bearing  is  not 
clearly  understood,  or  it  has  no  bearing  at  all  and  should 
therefore  be  omitted.  Each  detail  of  the  argument  (a,  6, 
or  c)  must  read  as  a  reason  for  the  larger  point  (1,  2,  or  3) 
under  which  it  stands,  as  if  it  were  preceded  by  the  con- 
junction for.  Each  larger  point  in  turn  (1,  2,  or  3)  must 
read  as  a  reason  for  the  still  larger  point  (A,  B,  oriC)  under 
which  it  stands.  Each  largest  point  (A,  B,  or  C)  must  read 
as  a  direct  reason  for  the  proposition.  Or,  to  put  it  the 
other  way,  A,  B,  C,  etc.,  are  reasons  for  the  proposition;  1, 
2,  3,  etc.,  are  reasons  for  A  or  B  or  C,  etc.;  a,  b,  c,  etc.,  are 
reasons  for  1  or  2  or  3,  etc.    When  successive  arguments  are 


THE  ANALYSIS  OF  ARGUMENT  105 

designated  by  the  same  type,  as  1  and  2,  they  are  under- 
stood to  be  coordinate,  as  if  they  were  connected  by  the 
conjunction  and;  when  successive  arguments  are  designated 
by  difference  of  type,  as  1  and  a,  the  second  is  understood 
to  be  subordinate  to  the  first,  as  if  they  were  connected  by 
the  conjunction  for.  This  distinction  is  marked  still  more 
clearly,  as  in  the  plan  above,  by  keeping  coordinate  argu- 
ments in  the  same  column  and  setting  subordinate  argu- 
ments a  little  to  the  right.  In  a  word,  the  object  of  this 
system  is  to  classify  the  notes. 

Though  at  first  the  system  may  seem  compUcated,  it  is 
never  in  fact  more  complicated  than  the  material  to  which 
it  is  applied.  A  long  investigation  of  a  subject  in  many 
aspects  might,  indeed,  require  not  only  A's,  I's,  and  a's,  but 
all  the  other  types  in  the  font;  but  in  ordinary  arguments 
the  plan  may  be  applied  quite  simply.  In  fact,  it  is  of  con- 
stant use  in  arguments  that  require  no  research  at  all. 

For  J  not  Therefore.  —  Still,  a  few  cautions  will  save  trou- 
ble. First,  this  system  of  analysis  excludes  the  word  therC" 
fore.  It  would,  indeed,  be  just  as  logical  to  turn  the  system 
upside  down,  thus : 

(1)  An  undeserved  name  cannot  be  held  long  in  the  competition 
of  a  great  city.    Therefore 
a.  Eminence  makes  superiority  highly  probable.    Therefore 
3.  The  argument  that  the  professors  are  merely  more 
eminent,  without  having  more  knowledge,  is  falla- 
cious.    Therefore 
A.  New  York  has  better  teaching.    Therefore 

(Proposition)     You  ought  to  study  medicine  in 
New  York. 

And  in  delivering  this  argument  one  might  follow  that 
order.  But  the  analysis  goes  the  other  way  about  in  order 
to  give  such  prominence  to  the  main  points  as  will  make 


106  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

them  catch  the  eye;  and,  having  started  that  way,  it  must 
not  change;  it  must  keep  one  way  throughout.  Otherwise 
the  system  will  break  down.  The  conjunction  implied  must 
always  be  for.  This  applies,  of  course,  simply  to  the 
analysis,  not  at  all  to  the  order  of  sentences  in  a  spoken 
paragraph. 

How  to  Bring  Opposing  Arguments  into  the  Analysis.  — 
Secondly,  this  system  includes,  not  only  the  positive  argu- 
ments on  one^s  own  side,  but  also  the  answers  to  the  argu- 
ments of  opponents.  It  is  all  made  from  one  point  of  view, 
for  no  one  can  argue  on  both  sides  at  once;  but  it  takes 
account  of  the  other  point  of  view  by  bringing  in  opposing 
arguments  to  answer  them.  This  is  called  rebuttal.  In  the 
plan  above,  the  main  point  D,  and  the  subordinate  point  3 
under  A,  are  rebuttals;  for  rebuttal  may  come  in  either  as 
a  main  point  or  as  a  subordinate  point.  In  either  case  it 
comes  into  the  analysis  always  in  this  one  way: 

E.  The  argument  (or  assertion)  that  .  .  .  (Here  state  the 
opposing  argument)  is  insufficient  (or  not  supported  by  the  facts, 
or  unwarranted).  (Here  sum  up  in  a  word  or  phrase  the  way  in 
which  you  meet  the  opposing  argument.) 

1.  Here  state  a  fact  or  reason  in  support  of  your  objection. 

2.  Here  state  a  fact  or  reason  in  support  of  your  objection;  etc. 

Strict  adherence  to  this  form  makes  possible  the  bringing 
in  of  any  argument  whatsoever  for  the  other  side  without 
upsetting  the  plan  as  a  plan  for  one^s  own  side.  It  has  the 
further  advantage  of  showing  just  how  an  opposing  argu- 
ment, as  well  as  a  positive  argument  of  one's  own,  bears  on 
the  whole  debate.  Best  of  all,  it  sets  up  the  other  side  only 
to  knock  it  down.  It  forces  one  to  answer.  It  forces  him  to 
consider  just  where  and  how  any  attack  should  be  met.  No 
one  can  argue  well  without  considering  the  other  side; 
neither  can  any  one  argue  well  without  stajdng  on  his  own 


THE  ANALYSIS  OF  ARGUMENT  107 

side  while  he  meets  the  other  side  squarely.  For  the  way  to 
rebut  is  so  to  turn  the  arguments  of  an  adversary  as  to 
strengthen  one's  own  case. 

Division  under  a  Few  Main  Heads.  —  Finally,  the  very 
object  of  analysis  being  to  bring  out  the  main  points,  these 
main  points  should  be  few.  A  plan  consisting  of  ten  main 
points  is  a  plan  not  carefully  thought  out.  Some  of  these 
ten  points  thus  set  down  as  coordinate  must  in  fact  be 
subordinate  to  the  others;  for  any  ordinary  argument  can 
be  grouped  under  four  or  five  cardinal  points,  and  many  a 
good  argument  has  had  only  two  or  three.  All  the  others 
group  themselves  under  these.  A  man  who  has  the  prover- 
bial twenty  reasons  for  a  proposition  has  some  larger  and 
some  smaller;  and  the  smaller  ones,  the  details,  should  be 
grouped  under  the  larger.  Indeed,  the  chief  service  of  this 
sort  of  plan-making  is  to  develop  a  habit  of  looking,  in  any 
question,  for  the  main  lines,  the  large  considerations,  the 
great  points,  —  in  a  word,  to  teach  grouping.  People  who 
can  thus  group  readily  are  said  to  see  through  a  question; 
and  no  one  is  further  from  seeing  through  a  question  than 
the  man  who  has  merely  accumulated  a  mass  of  facts  with- 
out classification,  who  has  no  better  idea  of  discussion  than 
merely  to  rehearse  one  fact  after  another.  He  is  like  the 
man  in  the  proverb  who  could  not  see  the  forest  for  the 
trees.  He  is  bewildered  by  his  own  knowledge  because  his 
knowledge  is  disorderly.  The  main  use  of  analysis  is  to 
group  the  material  finally  under  a  few  main  propositions 
which  are  felt  to  be  necessary  and  vital. 


108  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

ANALYSIS  OF  THE  ARGUMENTS  OF  LINCOLN 

AND   OF   DOUGLAS   IN   THE   DEBATE  AT 

GALESBURG,  ILLINOIS 

(The  Fifth  Debate,  October  7,  1858,  in  the  Contest  for  the  United 
States  Senatorship.^) 

*  I.  Argument  of  Douglas 

Proposition:    I  ask  your  votes  as  the  candidate  of  the  Democratic 
party. 
A.  /  have  maintained  consistently  the  Democratic  principle  of  popur 
lar  sovereignty. 

1.  My  Kansas-Nebraska  Bill  declared  this  principle  explic- 

itly. 

2.  My  opposition  to  the  Lecompton  Constitution  was  based 

on  this  principle. 

a.  That  constitution  was  not  the  will  of  the  people  of 

Kansas. 

b.  The  charge  that  this  opposition  was  disloyal  to  the 

party  is  unfounded. 
(1)  The  Lecompton  men  offered  a  compromise  on  the 
EngUshBill. 

3.  My  opposition  to  the  Enghsh  Bill  was  based  on  this  prin- 

ciple. 
a.  This  bill  violated  the  principle  of  the  equaUty  of 
states. 
(1)  It  proposed  to  admit  Kansas  as  a  slave  state  with 
less  population  than  as  a  free  state. 
6.   My  opposition  was  not  due  to  the  position  of  Kansas 
as  to  slavery. 
(1)  I  should  have  had  the  same  objection  had  the  pro- 
posal been  for  a  free  state. 

c.  The  charge  that  this  opposition  was  disloyal  to  the 

party  is  unfounded. 

1  Reprinted,  pages  79-141,  in  Archibald  L.  Bouton's  The  Lincoln  and 
Douglas  Debates  (New  York,  1905),  in  which  will  be  found  an  intro- 
duction and  notes  supplying  historical  information. 


THE  ANALYSIS  OF  ARGUMENT  109 

(1)  It  comes  from  political  machination. 

(2)  It  is  inconsistent  with  the  attitude  of  the  party  in 

other  states. 

B.  The  Republican  party  is  sectional. 

1.  It  appeals  to  the  North  against  the  South. 

2.  Its  principles  cannot  be  proclaimed  in  the  South. 

3.  Even  in  this  single  state  of  lUinois  its  utterances  in  the 

northern  section  are  inconsistent  with  its  utterances  in 
the  southern. 

4.  In  different  parts  of  the  state  it  calls  itself  by  different 

names. 

C.  The  Democratic  theory  of  settling  the  slqvery  question  in  accord- 

ance with  popular  sovereignty  is  sound. 

1.  The  Repubhcan  interpretation  of  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 

pendence is  a  heresy. 
a.  The  signers  had  no  intention  of  including  the  negro. 

(1)  Jefferson  owned  slaves. 

(2)  All  the  colonies  were  slave-holding  colonies. 

2.  The  Democratic  doctrine  does  not  enforce  slavery. 

a.  It  offers  the  inferior  race  every  privilege  consistent 
with  the  safety  of  white  society. 

3.  The  different  states  of  the  Union  have  legislated  concern- 

ing the  negro  differently. 
a.  We  in  Illinois  hold  him  neither  slave  nor  citizen;  Ken- 
tucky holds  a  different  doctrine;  etc. 

4.  This  principle  of  states'  rights  is  at  the  foundation  of  our 

government. 
6.  The  objection  that  the  Dred  Scott  decision  makes  it  impos- 
sible to  exclude  slavery  from  a  territory  will  not  hold. 
a.  Slavery  can  be  excluded  by  the  local  police  power. 
(1)  This  view  was  upheld  by  Mr.  Orr  and  other 
Southern  Congressmen. 
6.  Mr.  Lincoln's  theory  of  "a  house  divided  against  itself" 
is  inconsistent  with  the  intention  of  the  Constitution. 
a.  If  it  had  been  held  by  the  Constitutional  Convention, 
it  would  have  nationaUzed  slavery. 
(1)  The  slave-holding  states  were  twelve  to  one. 


110  THE  TECH  NIC  OF  ARGUMENT 


II.  Reply  of  Lincoln 

Proposition:    I  ask  your  votes  as  the  candidate  of  the  Republican 
party. 

A.  Judge  Douglas's  objections  to  the  Republican  position  will  not 
stand. 

1.  The  charge  as  to  the  Declaration  of  Independence  will 

not  stand. 

a.  No  one,  up  to  three  years  ago,  ever  denied  that  the 

Declaration  includes  the  negro. 
6.   The  fact  that  Jefferson  owned  slaves  is  more  than  off- 
set by  his  declaration  concerning  slavery,  that  he 
trembled  for  his  country  when  he  remembered  that 
God  was  just. 

2.  The  charges  as  to  party  names  is  a  mere  quibble. 

o.  The  calls  of  meetings  to  hear  Judge  Douglas  show  the 
same  differences  as  those  to  hear  me. 

b.  His  party  no  longer  calls  itself  the  National  Democ- 

racy. 

3.  The  charge  as  to  inconsistency  will  not  stand. 

a.  1  am  aware  that  all  my  speeches  will  be  printed. 
6.   To  say  that  the  negro  should  not  be  a  slave  is  not  to 
affirm  his  social  equaUty. 

c.  The  Repubhcan  position  is  that  the  negro  has  equal 

rights  under  the  Declaration  of  Independence  to 
"hfe,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness." 

d.  The  Repubhcan  party  takes  issue,  not  with  the  exist- 

ence of  slavery  in  old  states,  but  with  its  spread 
into  new  territories. 

4.  The  objection  that  the  Repubhcan  party  is  sectional  is 

beside  the  point. 
a.  A  doctrine  is  not  unsound  because  it  is  not  tolerated 
in  some  sections. 

(1)  Russia  would  not  tolerate  the  Democratic  plat- 

form. 

(2)  Chicago  refused  to  hsten  to  Judge  Douglas. 


THE  ANALYSIS  OF  ARGUMENT  111 

b.  Judge  Douglas  is  driven  to  call  our  doctrines  sectional 

because  he  cannot  rebut  them. 

c.  Judge  Douglas  himself,  in  the  sense  in  which  he  ap- 

phed  the  term  to  us,  is  fast  becoming  sectional. 

B.  The  consistency  of  the  Kansas-Nebraska  Bill  with  the  Com- 

promise  of  1850  cannot  be  proved. 

1.  The  principle  of  the  Kansas-Nebraska  Bill  cannot  be 
found  in  the  Compromise. 
a:  The  organization  of  New  Mexico  and  Utah  does  not 
show  it. 

(1)  The  acts  as  to  these  territories  were  simply  part 

of  a  general  system  of  compromises. 

(2)  These  acts  were  not  followed  in  the  Kansas-Ne- 

braska Bill. 

C.  The  Democratic  application  of  the  principle  of  popular  sover- 

eignty to  the  question  of  slavery  ignores  the  Republican  con- 
tention that  slavery  is  wrong. 

1.  All  Judge  Douglas's  arguments  exclude  the  idea  that 

slavery  is  wrong. 

2.  The  application  is  logical  only  if  slavery  is  right. 

(D.  and  E.  are  personal  arguments  applying  only  to  the  pohtical 
campaign.) 

F.    The  Dred  Scott  decision  opens  the  way  for  fastening  slavery  even 
upon  free  states. 

1.  The  Constitution  as  interpreted  by  the  Supreme  Court 

overrules  all  state  legislation. 

2.  The  Dred  Scott  decision  declares:    "The  right  of  property 

in  a  slave  is  distinctly  and  expressly  aflSrmed  in  the 
Constitution." 

3.  The  only  escape  from  this  conclusion  is  to  deny  the  truth 

of  the  premise  affirmed  by  the  Dred  Scott  decision. 

4.  We  are  justified  in  fearing  that  the  abstract  right  thus 

inferred  will  be  apphed  if  the  Democrats  gain  suffi- 
cient power. 


112  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

a.  The  decision  would  not  have  taken  this  form  if  the 

Democratic  party  had  not  been  sustained  in  the 

elections. 
6.   Douglas's  course  of  argument,  whether  consciously  or 

imconsciously,  is  preparing  the  pubUc  mind  for 

such  apphcation. 

(1)  He  talks  of  the  decision  as  if  to  question  the  Su- 

preme Court  were  to  attack  the  Constitution. 

(2)  His  favorite  sentences  concerning  slavery  show  a 

drift  toward  its  nationahzation. 

(3)  His  exclusion  of  the  negro  from  all  share  in  the 

Declaration  of  Independence  tends,  in  the 
words  of  Clay,  to  "eradicate  the  hght  of  reason 
and  the  love  of  Uberty." 

G.  The  Democratic  theory  of  leaving  the  question  of  slavery  in  new 
territories  to  be  settled  by  the  people  of  those  territories  is 
dangerous. 

1.  For  instance,  we  could  not  trust  its  settlement  to  Mex- 

icans. 

2.  The  acquisition  of  new  territory  on  these  terms  would 

aggravate  our  difficulties  with  slavery. 

a.  The  constitutional  power  of  the  President  and  Senate 

to  acquire  new  territory  easily  operates  in  this 
direction. 
(1)  The  acquisition  of  territory  after  the  war  with 
Mexico  tended  in  this  direction, 
(a)  This  territory  was  acquired  without  the  pro- 
hibition of  slavery  by  the  action  of  the 
President  and  Senate  against  the  wishes  of 
the  House. 

b.  Douglas's  doctrine  of  necessary  expansion  opens  the 

way  for  this. 
(1)  There  is  a  constant  motive  for  acquiring  new  ter- 
ritory in  order  to  extend  slavery. 

3.  The  slavery  question  is  the  only  one  that  has  ever  endan- 

gered our  repubUcan  institutions. 


THE  ANALYSIS  OF  ARGUMENT  113 

a.    STATEMENT  AND   PROOF 

Every  course  of  argument  consists  of  two  processes: 
(1)  statement  of  facts,  or  explanation;  (2)  drawing  conclu- 
sions from  facts,  or  inference.  The  former  is  exposition;  the 
latter,  argument  proper.  In  the  former  we  are  telling  what 
the  facts  are,  and  grouping  them  only  to  make  clearer  what 
every  one  admits  concerning  them;  in  the  latter  we  are 
grouping  the  facts  to  show  what  we  believe,  and  wish  others 
to  believe,  that  they  prove.  By  this  is  not  meant  that  every 
argument  must  begin  with  exposition,  nor  that  exposition 
and  argument  are  entirely  distinct.  Exposition  may,  indeed, 
be  used  as  a  separate  and  introductory  stage  before  argu- 
ment proper  begins;  and  many  disputes  are  clarified  by  a 
preliminary  agreement  as  to  what  the  undisputed  facts  are 
and  what  the  words  mean  in  which  they  are  discussed.  But, 
in  general,  statement  of  facts  and  inference  from  facts,  ex- 
position and  argument,  are  constantly  intermingled.  As  we 
find  facts,  we  can  hardly  help  drawing  conclusions  from 
them;  as  we  argue,  we  must  often  stop  to  explain.  Nor 
should  we  try  to  be  always  either  purely  expository  or 
purely  argumentative.  This  would  unduly  hamper  the 
natural  impulses  of  thought  and  speech.  But  we  should 
clearly  distinguish.  We  should  know  when  we,  or  our 
opponents,  are  stating  facts;  when  we  or  they  are  drawing 
conclusions.  Otherwise  we  cannot  analyze  a  course  of 
argument  or  discern  how  to  meet  it.  We  must  not  let 
pass,  in  reading  or  debate,  as  mere  statement  of  fact  what 
conceals  an  inference  that  may  be  disputed.  Statement 
and  proof  may  be  mingled;  but  they  must  not  be  confused. 
What  is  put  forward  as  mere  statement  of  facts  sometimes 
implies  certain  inferences  that  ought  to  be  challenged. 
Every  one  who  wishes  to  gain  power  in  argument  must 
accustom   himself   to   distinguish    between   the   two.    He 


114  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

must  neither  ignore,  nor  let  others  ignore  in  debate,  this 
fundamental  distinction.  He  must  learn  to  estimate  facts 
as  facts,  according  to  the  authority  upon  which  they  are 
asserted;  inferences  as  inferences,  according  to  the  logic 
with  which  they  are  inferred  (see  pages  11-13). 

This  distinction  between  exposition  and  argument  proper 
affects  the  use,  in  one  or  the  other,  of  the  system  of  analysis 
outlined  above.  When  the  system  is  used  merely  to  group 
facts  for  exposition,  it  does  not  require  that  every  point 
should  go  to  prove  the  point  next  above  it.  A  supporting 
point  in  such  an  analysis  of  exposition  may  be  merely  one 
part  or  aspect  of  its  main  point;  or  it  may  be  an  illustration, 
or  even  an  exception.  The  analysis  need  not  even  be  cast 
throughout  in  sentences.  In  the  analysis  of  Newman's 
Literature  below,  C  being  argumentative,  is  cast  throughout 
in  sentences;  the  other  parts,  being  mainly  expository,  show 
their  relations  quite  as  precisely  and  more  immediately  by 
clauses  or  phrases. 

ANALYSIS  OF  NEWMAN'S  LECTURE  ON  LITERATURE  ^ 

Literature 
A.  is  'primarily  'personal  expression. 

1.  It  is  discussed  in  terms  of  speech, 

a.  though  the  word,  by  its  derivation,  implies  writing. 

2.  It  cannot  be  conceived  as  a  composite  or  mechanical 

product. 

3.  This  character  is  what  distinguishes  it  from  science, 
o.   Scientific  expression  is  impersonal. 

(1)  Its  words  are  rather  symbols  than  language. 
h.   Science  deals  with  things;  literature,  with  thoughts. 

4.  It  is  essentially  original. 

a.  Writing  of  this  kind  is  the  very  double  of  the  writer. 

*  See  above,  page  48. 


THE  ANALYSIS  OF  ARGUMENT  115 

B.  is  not  to  be  tested  by  the  degree  of  elaboration. 

1.  This  test  has  the  fallacy  of  regarding  elaboration  as 

extraneous  adornment. 

2.  But  the  style  must  be  just  as  elaborate  as  the  author  — 
o.  copious,  if  he  is  copious: 

(1)  as  we  see  in  Shakspere; 

(2)  and  still  more  in  Cicero, 

(a)  who,  while  others  wrote  Latin,  wrote  "Roman." 

3.  And,  whether  elaborate  or  not,  hterature  is  elaborated, 

a.  as  painting  is,  or  sculpture. 

b.  even  when  the  result  seems  least  elaborate,  as  in  the 

case  of 

(1)  Demosthenes, 

(a)  who  studied  style  by  transcribing  Thucydides; 

(2)  Herodotus, 

(a)  who  adopted  a  special  dialect; 

(3)  Addison, 

(a)  who  could  not  let  a  state  paper  go  without 
elaboration; 

(4)  Virgil, 

(a)  who  wished  to  burn  his  ^neid; 

(5)  Gibbon, 

(6)  who  wrote  his  first  chapter  three  times. 

C.  is  not  to  be  tested  by  adaptability  to  translation. 

1.  This  test  puts  hterature  on  the  same  basis  as  science. 

2.  It  is  beUed  by  the  analogy  of  other  arts. 

a.  Beethoven  cannot  be  played  on  the  hurdy-gurdy. 

3.  It  can  be  exploded  by  reductio  ad  absurdum. 

a,  Shakspere   can  be  translated  into   German,  but  not 

into  French. 

b.  The  multiphcation  table  would  then  be  a  triumph  of 

hterature. 

4.  Each  language,  like  each  art,  has  its  own  pecuhar  capac- 

ities and  limitations. 

D.  at  its  highest,  is  the  expression  of  what  is  most  permanently  and 

vridely  human. 


116  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

1.  It  is  the  expression  of  eminent  representative  personalities. 
a.  It  says  what  is  felt  by  all,  but  what  can  be  said  only 
by  great  masters: 

(1)  Virgil. 

(2)  Shakspere, 

(3)  in  general,  the  classics. 

E.  therefore  deserves  the  closest  stvdy.         ^ 

But  when  this  system  of  analysis  is  applied  to  argument, 
then  only  one  relation  is  admissible.  Every  fact  must  go 
to  prove  the  inference  under  which  it  is  grouped;  every  in- 
ference in  turn  must  go  to  prove  the  larger  inference  next 
above  it.  In  every  case  the  relation  of  larger  part  to  smaller 
is  the  single  relation  expressed  by  the  conjunction  for^ 
until  we  come  down  to  the  facts.  These  are  at  the  bottom 
of  all.  We  must  be  sure  that  they  are  facts;  else  the  su- 
perstructure of  inference  will  fall.  The  very  form  of  the 
analysis,  then,  may  show  the  difference  between  stating  and 
proving.  Useful  for  either,  this  system  is  less  useful  in 
exposition  than  in  argument;  and  its  use  in  either  is  only 
for  analysis,  for  seeing  through  an  accumulation  of  material, 
not  at  all  for  composing  it. 

3.  The  Logical  Processes  of  Argument 

Beneath  the  various  forms  of  argument  lie  three  habitual 
processes,  which  are  suromed  up  and  explored  by  logic  as 
deduction,  induction,  and  analogy.  For  example,  to  show 
that  elections  to  the  United  States  Senate  should  be  by 
direct  popular  vote,  it  has  been  argued: 

(1)  from  general  principle,  that  our  government  is  based 
on  the  idea  of  popular  representation; 

(2)  from  facts,  that  the  indirect  method  of  election  keeps 
senators  from  being  directly  amenable  to  the  will  of  the 
people  of  their  states; 


THE  LOGICAL  PROCESSES  OF  ARGUMENT       117 

(3)  by  comparison,  that  the  British  House  of  Lords  shows 
the  danger  of  a  privileged  body  able  to  obstruct  legislation 
demanded  by  a  large  majority  of  the  people. 

These  are  three  fundamental  ways  of  arguing.  The  first, 
arguing  from  general  principles,  is  called  deduction;  the 
second,  arguing  from  the  facts  under  investigation,  is  called 
induction;  the  third,  arguing  from  a  parallel  case  outside, 
is  called  analogy.  To  apply  these  three  ways  on  the  other 
side  of  the  same  question,  it  may  be  argued: 

(1)  by  deduction  from  general  principles,  that  the  under- 
lying ideas  of  our  Constitution  with  regard  to  representation 
are  (a)  to  represent  the  states  as  states,  not  merely  the  people 
as  a  whole,  and  (6)  to  maintain  a  system  of  checks  and 
balances; 

(2)  by  induction  from  the  facts  under  investigation,  that 
the  Senate  has  not  shown  itself  less  amenable  than  the 
House  to  the  will  of  a  majority  of  the  nation. 

(3)  by  analogy  of  a  parallel  case  outside,  that  the  French 
Senate  shows  the  value  of  a  second  chamber  in  a  representa- 
tive republican  government. 

All  these  three  ways  of  arguing  are  so  useful  that,  instead 
of  troubling  ourselves  as  to  which  is  best,  we  should  try  to 
use  all.  It  is  well  to  cultivate  all  ways  of  arguing.  But  the 
three  ways  are  not  equally  good  for  every  case.  Some 
propositions  depend  more  on  deduction  because,  the  facts 
being  imperfectly  known  or  hard  to  find,  we  are  thrown  back 
for  our  decision  on  the  general  principles  or  ideas  under 
which  we  have  come  to  group  our  previous  knowledge. 
Other  propositions  depend  more  on  induction  because,  the 
question  being  new,  our  previous  ideas  give  us  compara- 
tively little  guidance.  As  to  analogy,  though  it  may  be 
used  in  almost  any  discussion,  it  is  never  suflScient  by  itself. 


118  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

a.    DEDUCTION 

Deduction  is  the  attempt  to  bring  a  particular  case  into 
line  with  the  generalizations  already  made  by  experience. 
In  this  large  sense  it  is  reasoning  from  the  general  to  the 
particular,  as  induction  is  reasoning  from  the  particular 
to  the  general  in  the  sense  of  reasoning  from  the  facts  of  the 
case  to  a  conclusion  covering  all  facts  of  the  same  class. 
Deduction  thus  corresponds  roughly  to  the  logical  term  a 
priori,^  as  when  we  conclude  that  a  man  will  go  to  Mass 
because  he  is  a  Catholic.  Such  reasoning  from  one's  store 
of  previous  generalizations  is  most  useful  in  forecast  of 
probabilities  (page  97).  Correspondingly  its  besetting  dan- 
ger is  prejudice.  As  we  thus  survey  a  question  by  the 
light  of  our  general  ideas,  we  must  not  try  to  settle  it  in 
advance  finally.  Unless  we  keep  our  minds  open,  we  cannot 
interpret  the  evidence.  Deduction  must  help,  not  hinder, 
induction.  With  this  caution  we  may  always  profit  by 
arguing  deductively  before  and  during  research. 

(1)  Argument  from  Antecedent  Prohahility 

That  form  of  deductive  reasoning  which  is  perhaps  most 
obviously  a  priori  is  the  argument  from  antecedent  probability. 
My  friend  A  is  accused  of  forgery.  Before  hearing  any  of 
the  evidence  I  argue  that  the  charge  is  false  because  A 
would  not  commit  forgery.  We  all  recognize  this  as  a  fair 
way  of  rejecting  some  propositions.  If  a  newspaper  should 
announce  the  invention  of  an  air-ship  capable  of  carry- 
ing one  hundred  passengers  across  the  Atlantic  at  a  speed 
of  three  hundred  miles  an  hour,  most  of  us  would  doubt, 
and  some  of  us  would  utterly  deny,  the  statement  without 

1 A  pri&ri  is  sometimes  still  defined  to  mean  reasoning  from  cause 
to  effect  (a  posteriori,  reasoning  from  effect  to  cause);  but  this  defini- 
tion no  longer  covers  current  use. 


THE  LOGICAL  PROCESSES  OF  ARGUMENT         119 

investigation.  In  forecasting  investigation,  moreover,  we 
argue  from  antecedent  probability:  "No  use  in  spending 
time  on  such  testimony";  or,  ''There  should  be  traces  here"; 
or,  more  generally,  ''It  will  not  be  hard  to  make  a  great 
array  of  supporting  evidence";  or,  "This  cannot  be  settled 
by  evidence;  it  must  be  fought  out  on  general  considera- 
tions." In  fact,  the  chief  use  of  antecedent  probability  is 
to  clear  the  way,  to  forecast.  It  is  preliminary,  not  final. 
Though  I  rightly  refuse  to  tolerate  a  charge  of  forgery 
against  my  friend,  yet  I  must  admit  that  even  his  well 
known  uprightness  does  not,  as  against  positive  evidence 
of  his  having  signed  such  and  such  checks,  prove  his  in- 
nocence. The  argument  from  antecedent  probability  shows 
which  way  the  probabilities  lean  before  the  case  is  investi- 
gated; it  establishes  a  presumption.  In  some  cases  we  are 
content  to  accept  it  as  suflSicient;  in  other  cases,  we  have 
nothing  better;  in  most  cases  we  go  on  to  the  evidence. 

(2)  Syllogism  and  Enthymeme 

A  deductive  argument  is  always  reducible  to  a  syllogism. 
The  syllogism,  or  strictly  logical  deductive  summary,  con- 
sists typically  of  three  parts: 

Major  Premise.  All  immigrants  must  have  "  first  papers  " 
in  order  to  vote. 

Minor  Premise.    This  immigrant  has  not  "  first  papers." 
Conclusion.    This  immigrant  cannot  vote. 

This  is  the  form  followed  in  geometry.  The  argument 
starts  from  a  truth,  already  established  and  accepted,  called 
the  major  premise.  It  proceeds  to  prove  that  the  par- 
ticular proposition  in  question,  the  minor  premise,  comes 
within  the  scope  of  the  major  premise.  The  conclusion 
follows  as  a  matter  of  course.  A  deductive  argument  is 
thus  seen  to  consist  of  proving  that  the  particular  case  in 


120  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

point  comes  under  a  general  law.  Ideally  the  major  premise 
is  imiversal  and  indisputable;  the  minor  premise  indicates 
the  course  of  the  argument,  which  is  to  prove  that  a  particular 
instance  falls  within  that  universal,  indisputable  truth;  the 
conclusion  follows  of  necessity.  This  conclusion,  being 
necessary,  being  now  demonstrated  as  a  universal,  indis- 
putable truth,  becomes  in  turn  the  major  premise  for  suc- 
ceeding syllogisms,  and  so  on.  Thus  geometry  is  a  chain 
of  syllogisms;  and,  conversely,  all  syllogistic  argument  may 
be  carried  back  and  back  imtil  it  rests  on  some  axiom. 

It  follows  that  in  matters  of  ordinary  debate  we  cannot 
establish  a  case  entirely  by  deduction,  for  the  evident  reason, 
that  we  cannot  get  an  indisputable  major  premise.  Other- 
wise the  question  would  not  be  under  discussion;  it  would 
no  longer  be  a  question,  for  it  would  be  already  settled. 
Persuasion,  as  Aristotle  says,^  is  not  absolute  and  abstract, 
but  relative  and  concrete.  Our  arguments  concern  "things 
which  appear  to  admit  the  possibility  of  conclusion  either 
way  ...  for  no  one  ever  deliberated  about  things  which 
offer  no  alternative,  which  can  exist  or  issue  in  only  one  way.'* 
In  other  words,  persuasion  is  not  demonstration;  rhetoric 
is  not  logic.  But  practical  deduction,  though  it  cannot  use 
the  syllogism  rigorously,  constantly  uses  a  modification  of 
it  which  Aristotle  calls  the  enthymeme.  An  enthymeme  is  a 
partial  syllogism,  incomplete  in  form  or  in  degree.  This  im- 
migrant cannot  vote  because  he  has  not  '^ his  first  papers''  is  an 
enthymeme  corresponding  to  the  syllogism  above.  Nothing 
hut  confusion  can  come  from  this  divided  responsibility  is  an 
enthymeme  corresponding  to  some  such  syllogism  as  the 
following: 

Major  Premise.  All  cases  of  divided  responsibiUty  lead  to 
confusion. 

*  Rhetoric,  Book  I. 


THE  LOGICAL  PROCESSES  OF  ARGUMENT        121 

Minor  Premise.    This  is  a  case  of  divided  responsibility. 
Conclusion.    Therefore  this  case  will  lead  to  confusion. 

So  formulated,  it  is  seen  to  be  incomplete,  not  only  by  its 
informal  abbreviation,  which  is  the  usual  way  of  actual 
argument,  but  by  a  margin  of  doubt  in  the  major  premise, 
which  expresses,  not  a  imiversal,  indisputable  truth,  but  a 
working  hypothesis,  a  generalization  accepted,  indeed,  and 
quite  sufficient  for  the  required  degree  of  proof,  but  subject 
to  correction  by  the  progress  of  science.  Enthymemes  are 
practical  deductions  from  principles  which,  if  not  accepted 
universally,  are  yet  accepted  generally  as  sufficient  guides 
to  conduct.  Such  argument  is  not  only  legitimate,  but  even 
necessary  as  complementary  to  induction.  Whereas  logic, 
then,  deals  abstractly  with  syllogisms,  as  typically  in  the 
demonstrations  of  mathematics,  rhetoric  deals  concretely 
with  enthymemes. 

But  though  the  syllogism  cannot  be  used  constructively 
in  a  whole  course  of  practical  argument,  it  not  only  can  be, 
but  must  be,  used  analytically  as  a  test.  The  only  safe 
way  of  testing  a  dubious  deductive  argument,  whether  one's 
own  or  an  opponent's,  is  to  sum  it  up  in  a  syllogism.  The 
very  rigor  of  the  syllogism  will  reveal  any  latent  weakness. 
It  will  show  whether  the  minor  premise  really  follows  from 
the  major;  and  especially  it  will  show  whether  the  major 
premise  is  large  enough  for  the  logical  demand,  whether  it 
is  a  generally  accepted  principle  or  only  a  loose  popular 
notion.  This  is  the  constant  use  of  formal  logic  in  practical 
argument. 

h.  INDUCTION 

Induction  goes  the  other  way  about.  It  marshals  the 
facts  collected  by  investigation  so  as  to  make  them  establish 
conclusions;  it  uses  facts  as  evidence;  it  groups  facts  to 
make  proof.    Hsre  are  two  processes,  both  requiring  care. 


122  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

First,  the  facts  must  be  established  separately  by  collation 
and  authority  (page  15) ;  secondly,  the  grouping  of  them  as 
evidence  must  be  convincing.  To  this  latter  end  there  must 
be  facts  enough  to  make  any  disputed  conclusion  clear;  and 
any  well  known  facts  that  seem  exceptions  must  be  explained. 
In  other  words,  induction  must  beware  of  concluding  hastily. 
For  instance,  it  has  been  found  that  in  a  street-railway  strike 
at  Waterbury,  Connecticut,  the  strikers  resorted  to  violence, 
that  violence  also  occurred  in  the  strike  of  steel-workers  at 
Homestead,  Pennsylvania,  and  again  in  a  miners'  strike  in 
Colorado.  Even  if  these  separate  facts  can  be  established, 
the  conclusion  that  strikes  lead  to  violence  will  be  challenged 
by  at  least  as  many  instances  to  the  contrary.  For  one  of 
the  greatest  services  of  debate  is  to  expose  hasty  inductions. 
The  interpretation  of  facts  as  evidence  must  be  so  careful 
that  no  one  can  fairly  object. 

(1)  MilVs  Canons 

Therefore  in  induction,  no  less  than  in  deduction,  we 
need  to  know  the  logical  tests  of  valid  inference.  Inductive 
argument,  or  reasoning  from  evidence,  is  ultimately  the  in- 
vestigation of  causes.  Inductive  logic,  therefore,  sets  forth 
the  conditions  of  a  valid  inference  of  cause.  These  were 
formulated  by  John  Stuart  Mill  in  the  five  "canons"  that 
are  known  by  his  name. 

*'  I.   The  Canon  of  Agreement. 

'*If  two  or  more  instances  of  the  phenomenon  under  in- 
vestigation have  only  one  circumstance  in  common,  the 
circumstance  in  which  alone  all  the  instances  agree  is  the 
cause  (or  effect)  of  the  given  phenomenon." 

In  an  epidemic  of  typhoid  the  only  circumstance  in  which  all 
the  cases  are  found  to  agree  is  the  use  of  milk  from  a  particular 
herd  of  cows.    Therefore  it  is  argued  that  the  immediate  cause  of 


THE  LOGICAL  PROCESSES  OF  ARGUMENT        123 

the  typhoid  is  that  milk.  The  "characteristic  imperfection"  of 
this  method  is  "the  impossibiUty  of  assuring  ourselves  that  we 
know  all  the  antecedents  in  our  instances."  ^  It  is  hard  enough  in 
a  country  village  to  be  sure  that  milk  from  a  particular  source  is 
the  only  thing  in  which  all  the  cases  agree  (one  of  the  patients  was 
out  of  town  a  part  of  every  day  before  his  illness;  another  has  a 
contaminated  well,  which  may  have  been  used  by  disobedient  chil- 
dren; etc.);  in  a  great  city,  it  may  easily  be  impossible.  Hence 
there  is  further 

"II.    The  Canon  of  Difference. 

"If  an  instance  in  which  the  phenomenon  under  investi- 
gation occurs  and  an  instance  in  which  it  does  not  occur 
have  every  circumstance  save  one  in  common,  that  one  oc- 
curring only  in  the  former,  the  circumstance  in  which  alone 
the  two  instances  differ  is  the  effect,  or  cause,  or  a  necessary 
part  of  the  cause,  of  the  phenomenon." 

"The  principle  is  that  of  comparing  an  instance  of  the  occur- 
rence of  a  phenomenon  with  a  similar  instance  in  which  it  does  not 
occur,  to  discover  in  what  they  differ."  ^  This  is  typically  the 
method  of  experiment.  If  after  pressure  upon  a  certain  point  of  a 
monkey's  brain  certain  muscles  of  the  monkey's  right  leg  are  im- 
mediately paralyzed,  no  other  change  having  occurred  in  the  ani- 
mal's physical  conditions,  it  is  inferred  that  the  nerve-center  thus 
injured  is  the  motor-center  for  those  leg-muscles.  And,  in  fact, 
experiments  of  this  sort  have  enabled  physicians,  from  certain 
symptoms,  to  locate  the  exact  spot  of  a  human  brain  at  which  an 
operation  is  necessary  to  reheve  pressure. 

"III.  The  Canon  of  the  Joint  Method  of  Agreement  and 
Difference. 

"If  two  or  more  instances  in  which  the  phenomenon 
occurs  have  only  one  circumstance  in  common,  while  two 

^  KiUick,  Handbook  to  Mill,  page  118. 
*  KiUick,  Handbook  to  Mill,  page  120. 


124  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

or  more  instances  in  which  it  does  not  occur  have  nothing 
in  common  save  the  absence  of  that  circumstance,  the  cir- 
cumstance in  which  alone  the  two  sets  of  instances  differ  is 
the  effect,  or  cause,  or  a  necessary  part  of  the  cause,  of  the 
phenomenon." 

"If  a  man  finds  that  whenever  he  eats  cucumber  he  suffers  from 
indigestion,  this  indicates  by  Agreement  that  cucumber  is  the 
cause  of  his  pain.  But,  if  he  is  fond  of  cucumber,  he  will  put  the 
fault  upon  other  ingredients  of  his  diet  taken  at  the  same  time, 
such  as  cheese,  salmon,  or  pastry,  which  he  likes  less.  Making, 
however,  a  second  list  of  dinners  (say)  when  visiting,  at  which 
cucumber  is  not  served,  whilst  cheese,  salmon,  pastry,  etc.,  all 
occur,  and  finding  that  he  does  not  suffer  from  indigestion,  the 
conclusion  seems  to  be  forced  upon  him  that  cucumber  is  the  only 
pleasure  of  the  table  that  must  be  bought  with  pain."  ^ 

''IV.    The  Canon  of  Residues. 

"Subduct  from  any  phenomenon  such  part  as  is  known 
by  previous  inductions  to  be  the  effect  of  certain  antecedents, 
and  the  residue  of  the  phenomenon  is  the  effect  of  the  re- 
maining antecedents. " 

Certain  college  debaters  are  defeated.  They  learn  from  trust- 
worthy testimony  that  in  the  opinion  of  the  judges  they  equaled 
their  opponents  in  weight  of  evidence  and  force  of  logic.  The 
judges  being  assumed  to  have  freed  their  decision  from  bias,  the 
beaten  debaters  conclude  the  reason  for  their  defeat  to  be  inferior- 
ity in  the  only  other  possible  element  of  the  decision  —  in  manner, 
in  form. 

"V.   The  Canon  of  Concomitant  Variations. 

"Whatever  phenomenon  varies  in  any  manner,  when- 
ever another  phenomenon  varies  in  some  particular  manner, 
is  either  a  cause  or  an  effect  of  that  phenomenon,  or  is  con- 
nected with  it  through  some  fact  of  causation." 

*  Carveth  Read,  Logic  Deductive  and  Inductive,  page  178. 


THE  LOGICAL  PROCESSES  OF  ARGUMENT         125 

Examples  of  this  canon  appear  graphically  in  charts  of  statis- 
tics; e.g.  in  charts  showing  the  rise  and  fall  of  prices  according  to 
the  degree  of  the  prevalence  of  certain  other  economic  conditions. 
Thus  also  we  infer  famiharly  the  advantages  of  thrift  or  cleanh- 
ness,  or  the  demorahzing  effects  of  stimulants  or  high  temperatures. 
Thus,  also,  in  cases  where  the  other  methods  are  not  applicable, 
we  argue  by  "progressive  approach,"  as  that  the  nearer  men  come 
toward  fulfilling  the  counsels  of  the  Gospels,  the  happier  aiey 
become  and  the  more  beneficent. 

These  canons  are  all  based  on  the  uniformity  of  nature, 
on  the  theory  that  the  phenomena  of  the  universe  are  going 
on,  and  will  go  on,  as  they  have  gone  on.  This,  as  Cardinal 
Newman  insists  and  Mill  agrees,  is  an  assumption;  it  cannot 
be  absolutely  proved.  Only  it  is  an  assumption  on  which, 
in  most  cases  at  least,  we  are  wont  to  act.  Again,  the  canons 
are  applicable  primarily  to  the  investigation  of  the  phenom- 
ena of  nature;  and  they  are  usually  inapplicable  strictly  to 
the  phenomena  of  human  life;  for  we  cannot  separate  emo- 
tions and  weigh  temperaments  and  tendencies  as  we  can 
separate  and  weigh  the  chemical  elements.  But  as,  even 
in  the  natural  sciences,  the  canons  cannot  achieve  absolute 
demonstration,  must  be  content  with  formulating  tendencies,-^ 
so  on  the  other  hand  in  the  inductions  of  every-day  research, 
in  matters  which  do  not  admit  of  demonstration  by  any 
process,  they  offer  a  safeguard  against  fallacy  and  a  guide 
to  sound  results.  They  apply  profitably,  though  the  results 
be  even  farther  from  demonstration  than  in  the  fields  of 
science,  to  the  processes  of  ordinary  discussion.  For  the 
methods  of  ascertaining  truth  or  forming  hypotheses  are 
not  essentially  different  from  those  of  supporting  them. 

(2)  Working  Rules  for  Ordinary  Induction 

From  these  scientific  canons,  then,  emerge  some  simple 
working  rules: 


126  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

(1)  Do  not  be  content  with  a  few  instances  of  a  supposed 
cause  or  effect,  but  get  as  many  as  you  reasonably  can. 
Beware  of  rash  generaUzations  [method  of  agreement}. 

(2)  Test  your  supposed  cause  or  effect  both  positively 
and  negatively;  i.e.,  try  to  show  not  only  that  the  result 
follows  when  the  alleged  cause  is  present,  but  that  it  does 
not  follow  when  the  alleged  cause  is  absent  \joint  method}. 

(3)  Try  to  show  that  your  alleged  cause  is  not  merely  a 
new  condition  preceding  the  known  result,  but  that  it  is 
the  only  new  condition,  the  only  material  change  in  the  cir- 
cumstances preceding  the  result  [method  of  difference}. 

(4)  Or  show,  not  only  that  your  supposed  cause  reasonably 
accounts  for  the  known  result,  but  that  no  other  supposed 
cause  accounts  so  well  [method  of  residues}. 

(5)  Look  for  a  parallel  rise  and  fall  of  your  supposed  cause 
and  effect,  as  of  democracy  and  personal  liberty,  of  average 
temperature  and  average  human  energy  [method  of  con- 
comitant variations}. 

(3)  Circumstantial  Evidence 

How  carefully  induction  should  be  tested  is  recognized 
by  the  unwillingness  of  courts  to  convict  on  ''merely  cir- 
cumstantial evidence/'  For  circumstantial  evidence  is  im- 
perfect induction.  By  a  collection  of  facts  which,  though 
not  sufficient  for  a  valid  inference  of  cause,  points  in  that 
direction,  it  establishes  a  certain  probability.  It  is  incon- 
clusive; but  it  may  fortify  better  evidence;  and  of  itself 
it  has  a  value  in  proportion,  of  course,  as  the  number  of 
particular  instances  increases  toward  the  point  where  their 
united  force  would  withstand  the  test  of  the  canons. 

The  hypothesis  that  a  certain  prisoner  caused  the  death  of  his 
neighbor  may  be  rendered  probable  by  a  number  of  circumstances 
shown  from  credible  testimony;  as  that  the  deceased  had  more 
than  once  injured  the  prisoner,  that  the  prisoner  returned  home 


THE  LOGICAL  PROCESSES  OF  ARGUMENT        127 

later  than  usual  on  the  night  of  the  death,  that  he  purchased,  some 
days  before,  a  pistol  of  the  same  cahber  as  the  fatal  bullet,  that  he 
left  town  very  early  the  next  morning,  etc.  But  since  any  of  these 
facts,  and  all  together,  will  bear  another  explanation  than  murder, 
it  is  accounted  unjust  to  infer  murder  without  further  evidence. 
The  inference  will  not  stand  the  test  of  the  canon  of  difference.  It 
is  not  clear  whether  the  facts  estabhshed  are  significant,  or  are 
merely  coincident  circumstances. 

A  man  once  went  on  a  steamer  wharf  in  New  York  to  meet  a 
friend  returning  from  Europe.  The  satchel  in  his  hand  contained 
a  guide-book  for  Paris  and  a  necklace  bearing  the  trade-mark  of  a 
French  jeweler.  On  leaving  the  wharf  he  was  challenged  by  the 
customs  officers,  and  was  naturally  unable  to  convince  them  that 
he  had  brought  the  dutiable  jewelry  from  the  street,  not  from  the 
steamer,  until  he  was  supported  by  unimpeachable  testimony.  The 
facts  were  that  he  had  carried  the  guide-book  and  the  necklace  on 
a  visit  to  New  Jersey,  to  talk  over  the  one  and  exhibit  the  other; 
circumstantial  evidence  pointed  to  an  attempt  to  smuggle. 

C.    ANALOGY 

Argument  by  analogy  (a  pari)  may  be  called  argument 
from  history.  It  amoimts  to  saying  that  like  circumstances 
have  like  results.  Therefore  its  force  depends  on  the  extent 
and  degree  of  the  Ukeness. 

Patrick  Henry  cried  out  on  a  memorable  occasion:  "Caesar  had 
his  Brutus,  Charles  I  his  Cromwell,  and  George  III  —  may 
profit  by  their  example." 

In  arguing  that  Mexico  wiU  gain  more  in  the  end  by  working 
out  its  own  civilization  independently  than  by  being  absorbed  or 
dominated  pohtically,  the  analogy  may  be  used  of  the  Germans  in 
the  days  of  Julius  Caesar.  Though  undoubtedly  the  Germans 
might  have  gained  more  in  civihzation  at  first  by  being  absorbed 
as  the  Gauls  were  into  the  Roman  Empire,  yet  by  keeping  their 
independence  they  developed  into  a  great  people. 

The  advantages  of  this  method  of  argument  are:  (1)  it  is 
popular  with  most  audiences;    people  like  to  have  their 


128  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

knowledge  of  history  appealed  to;  (2)  it  gives  scope  to  a 
speaker's  ingenuity  and  penetration;  it  is  available  in  cases 
that  do  not  admit  either  full  deduction  or  full  induction,  and 
especially  in  argument  as  to  the  future  of  men  and  societies. 
Its  disadvantage  is  that  it  demands  more  careful  use  than 
is  at  all  common.  Gases  that  are  loosely  and  popularly 
called  like,  as  that  of  Charles  I  and  that  of  George  III,  or 
the  Roman  Empire  and  a  modem  state,  or  contemporary 
Mexicans  and  early  Germans,  must  for  any  argumentative 
force  appear  to  be  like  essentially.  If  one  essential  dif- 
ference can  be  pointed  out,  as  in  habit  of  government  and 
sense  of  law  in  the  case  of  Mexico,  the  argument  is  at  least 
seriously  weakened;  if  more  than  one,  it  is  practically  de- 
stroyed. In  other  words,  the  analogy,  and  conversely  the* 
difference,  must  be  not  only  in  a  number  of  details  (and  of 
course  the  more,  the  stronger),  but  in  those  particular  de- 
tails which  are  characteristic,  or  at  least  in  those  details 
which  are  for  the  purposes  of  the  argument  essential.  And 
the  conclusion  of  an  analogy  is  a  probability,  greater  in 
proportion  as  the  analogy  approaches  deduction  or  induction, 
but  in  popular  use  merely  a  presumption  for  or  against 
what  is  to  be  proved  or  disproved  otherwise.  The  con- 
clusions of  most  arguments  from  analogy  are  only.  This  has 
happened  before;  it  may  happen  again :  but  more  considerate 
use  may  reach  so  far  as  to  urge,  The  past  plainly  teaches  us 
in  our  conditions  to  expect  so-and-so.  It  may  not  come;  but 
if  we  are  wise,  we  shall  prepare  for  it. 

This  argument  by  analogy,  though  it  should  by  no  means 
be  abandoned,  should  not  be  content  with  plausibility. 
Furthermore,  it  is  best  used,  not  as  a  main  reliance,  but  in 
support  of  other  forms  of  argument.  Generally  deduction 
is  most  useful  in  preliminary  survey;  induction,  for  the 
main  work  of  proof;  analogy,  to  enliven  the  presentation 
and  to  enhance  and  clarify  the  exposition.    Thus  to  bring 


THE  LOGICAL  PROCESSES  OF  ARGUMENT         129 

his  point  home  Lincoln  insinuated  an  analogy  in  his  argu- 
ment at  Springfield  ^  that  the  extending  recognition  of 
slavery  in  the  United  States  revealed  a  political  plot. 

We  cannot  absolutely  know  that  all  these  adaptations  are  the 
result  of  preconcert.  But  when  we  see  a  lot  of  framed  timbers, 
different  portions  of  which  we  know  have  been  gotten  out  at  dif- 
ferent times  and  places  by  different  workmen,  —  Stephen,  Frank- 
Hn,  Roger  and  James,  for  instance  —  and  when  we  see  these 
timbers  joined  together,  and  see  they  exactly  make  the  frame  of  a 
house  or  mill,  all  the  tenons  and  mortises  exactly  fitting,  and  all 
the  lengths  and  proportions  of  the  different  pieces  exactly  adapted 
to  their  respective  places,  and  not  a  piece  too  many  or  too  few,  — 
not  omitting  even  scaffolding,  —  or,  if  a  single  piece  be  lacking,  we 
see  the  place  in  the  frame  exactly  fitted  and  prepared  yet  to  bring 
such  piece  in  —  in  such  a  case  we  find  it  impossible  not  to  believe 
that  Stephen  and  Franklin  and  Roger  and  James  all  understood 
one  another  from  the  beginning  and  all  worked  upon  a  common 
plan  or  draft  drawn  up  before  the  first  blow  was  struck. 

This  case,  like  many  others  in  popular  argument,  reminds 
us  that  the  force  of  analogy  is  often  largely  descriptive.  The 
concrete  presentation  makes  the  hearers  see;  and  ''seeing 
is  believing."  Thus  analogy  may  prevail  as  imaginatively 
vivified  history.  An  audience  may  be  so  moved  by  the 
description  as  to  be  uncritical  of  the  application.     In  ex- 

ijune  16,  1858.  By  the  "Stephen"  of  his  parable  Lincoln  was 
readily  understood  to  mean  Stephen  A.  Douglas,  his  political  oppo- 
nent, Democratic  candidate  for  the  Illinois  senatorship;  by  "Franklin," 
Pierce,  just  yielding  the  presidency  to  "James"  Buchanan;  by  "Roger/* 
Taney,  the  Supreme  Court  justice  who  handed  down  the  Dred  Scott 
decision.  "The  charge,  which  Lincoln  has  now  completely  insinuated, 
is  that  President  Pierce,  his  successor  President  Buchanan,  Chief  Justice 
Taney,  and  Senator  Douglas,  leader  of  the  Democratic  party  in  the 
senate,  were  in  collusion  for  the  furtherance  of  a  pohcy  whereby  slavery 
was  to  be  nationalized.  This  was  a  matter  of  general  belief  among  Re- 
publicans at  the  time."  Note  at  page  250  of  The  Lincoln  and  Douglas 
Debates  edited  by  Archibald  Lewis  Bouton,  New  York,  1905. 


130  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

treme  cases  analogy  may  be  used,  hardly  for  argument  at 
all,  but  rather  for  direct  appeal  to  feeling.  Thus  the  prophet 
Nathan's  denunciation  of  King  David  {2  Samuel,  xii.  7) 
consisted  entirely  of  the  parable  of  the  poor  man's  ewe  lamb, 
with  the  simple  application  ''Thou  art  the  man." 

A  famihar  form  of  this  so-called  a  pari  argument  is  the 
aforticxri,  the  ''much  more"  argument. 

If  God  so  clothe  the  grass  of  the  field,  which  to-day  is  and 
to-morrow  is  cast  into  the  oven,  will  he  not  much  more  clothe 
you,  O  ye  of  little  faith?"  — ^^.  Matthew,  vi.  30. 

The  three  habitual  processes  of  argument,  then,  may  be 
summed  up  as  follows: 

1.  DediLction:  drawing  down  principles;  arguing  from  reflection 
and  experience,  or  out  of  one's  head;  looking  forward;  arguing  from 
general  principles. 

2.  Induction:  drawing  up  evidence;  arguing  from  investigation, 
or  out  of  books;  looking  backward;  arguing  from  particular  facts. 

3.  Analogy:  drawing  a  parallel;  arguing  by  comparison;  arguing 
that  the  present  is  like  the  past  in  a  particular  aspect;  arguing  from 
history. 

f  d.   DEGREES   OF  PROOF 

The  word  proof  is  used  of  the  abstract  demonstration  of 
mathematics,  of  establishing  that  "practical  certainty" 
which  is  the  limit  of  argument  on  many  important  matters, 
and  even  of  attaining  that  fair  probability  which  must 
content  us  in  discussions  still  more  numerous.  Only  in 
this  variable  sense  could  the  words  proof  and  prove  be  in 
current  use;  for  absolute  demonstration  is  not  practicable 
in  ordinary  human  affairs.  Thus  not  only  is  it  convenient 
and  natural  to  speak  of  degrees  of  proof,  but  it  is  important 
to  estimate,  in  any  given  case,  what  degree  we  can  attain, 
how  far  the  argument  can  be  carried. 

Certainty,  of  course,  is  the  ideal  of  the  syllogism.    But 


THE  LOGICAL  PROCESSES  OF  ARGUMENT         131 

syllogistic  demonstration  is  not  applicable  to  those  cases 
to  which  argument  is  usually  limited.  The  syllogistic 
argument  is  constantly  used  and  constantly  useful  in  details 
and  as  a  test;  but  the  ordinary  argument  as  a  whole  cannot 
be  carried  to  demonstration;  else  there  would  be  no  argu- 
ment. The  subjects  about  which  we  actually  argue  will 
not  yield  us  an  indisputable  major  premise.  Nor  does  induc- 
tion attain  to  mathematical  certainty.  Mill  prints  a  formal 
warning  against  regarding  the  conclusions  even  of  scientifi- 
cally rigid  induction  in  the  exact  sciences  as  absolute,  final 
truths.  These  ''laws"  of  science,  he  says,  must  always  be 
regarded  as  tendencies,  that  is  as  true  so  far  as  we  can  now 
determine,  but  possibly  subject  to  counteraction  from  causes 
as  yet  undiscovered.  Much  more,  then,  in  other  fields,  in 
economics,  in  politics  —  in  short,  in  those  very  fields  where 
we  have  occasion  for  most  of  our  argument,  induction  reaches 
something  less  than  certainty. 

This  is  to  say,  not  that  truth  is  only  an  idea,  but  simply 
that  since  we  must  in  most  cases  act  on  generalizations  short 
of  certainty,  it  is  toward  such  generalizations  that  we  direct 
most  of  our  argument.  We  deceive  ourselves,  perhaps 
others,  in  setting  as  our  goal  proof  in  the  sense  of  absolute, 
final  demonstration.  All  that  we  can  attain  —  and  since  it 
is  enough  to  act  on,  it  is  enough  to  prove  —  is  what  we  call 
practical  sufficiency.  Our  lives  are  not  reg-ulated  by  ab- 
solute demonstrations.  We  Uve  by  probabilities  —  and  by 
faith.  Though  this  lower  range  of  sufficiency  is  its  immedi- 
ate concern,  persuasion  is  not  the  less  concerned  with  truth. 
Our  view  of  truth  in  matters  of  common  argument  we  know 
to  be  incomplete.  It  grows;  and  toward  its  growth  no 
small  work  is  done  by  debate. 

When  the  proposition  frames,  not  opinion,  but  certitude,  it  may 
still  be  unnecessary  to  produce  complete  demonstration.  Whether 
certitude  without  complete  demonstration  is  reasonable;  whether, 


132  THE  TECHNIC  OF  ARGUMENT 

that  is,  it  is  reasonable  to  hold  absolute  truth  without  being  able 
to  exhibit  absolute  proof,  —  this  is  the  inquiry  of  Newman's  Gram- 
mar of  Assent,  to  which  among  modern  works,  and  to  James's  The 
Will  to  Believe,  the  inquirer  is  referred  once  for  all.  Newman's 
detailed  apphcation  to  rehgion  is  in  fact  the  practical  apphcation. 
Except  in  rehgion,  absolute  truth  is  not  for  most  men  of  real 
concern. 

Persuasion,  then,  moves  for  the  most  part  in  probabilities; 
and  it  so  moves,  not  as  though  truth  were  subjective,  but 
because  in  so  many  of  our  affairs,  unable  to  be  certain,  we 
must  proceed  upon  probabilities.  As  we  learn  more  we 
revise  our  judgments,  we  reach  higher  and  higher  probability, 
nearer  and  nearer  approximations  to  truth;  and  in  this 
process  an  important,  part  is  played  by  persuasion.  Thus, 
in  politics,  only  time  gives  us  the  truth;  but  meanwhile, 
as  one  proposition  after  another  is  settled,  it  passes  from 
discussion,  and  the  others  that  become  urgent  are  only 
less  doubtful  than  their  predecessors  were.  Among  these 
is  persuasion,  always  of  the  living  present,  statesman  and 
demagogue  contending  for  the  minds  of  men. 

But  since  persuasion,  more  perhaps  than  any  other  kind 
of  composition,  takes  color  from  its  material,  rising  with 
its  subject,  it  is  likely  to  be  highest,  to  reach  the  pitch  of 
eloquence,  when  it  presents  the  highest  motives,  the  weighti- 
est sanctions,  the  final  obligations.  So  the  most  frequent 
modern  opportunity  for  eloquence  is  in  the  pulpit.  There, 
too,  persuasion  is  devoted  largely  to  winning  assent  to  author- 
ity, to  moving  men,  not  indeed  without  reason,  but,  since  the 
hearers  are  not  commonly  in  a  position  to  measure  the  proof, 
without  proof.  With  and  without  proof,  persuasion,  though 
having  its  usual  concern  with  probabilities,  finds  its  high 
concern  in  truth.  Its  journey-work  is  to  win  assent  to 
probabilities;  its  great  opportunity  is  to  help  men  toward 
certitudes. 


SPEAKING  AND  WRITING  133 


II.    THE  PREPARATION  AND  REVISION  OF 
ORAL  ADDRESS 

Persuasion  is  generally  and  naturally  oral.  Oral  appeal 
is  limited,  indeed,  to  a  particular  audience;  but  it  has  the 
compensation  of  being  always  more  immediate  and  urgent. 
Multiplied  by  the  press,  a  speech  gains  in  extent,  but  loses 
in  force.  There  is  no  equivalent  for  the  direct  appeal  of 
speaker  to  audience.  Thus  argument,  the  commonest  means 
of  persuasion,  is  usually  oral.  Exposition,  being  oftener 
addressed  to  individuals  separately,  and  with  less  reference 
to  a  particular  occasion,  is  oftener  written;  argument  is 
oftener  oral  because  it  is  conmiunal,  addressed  to  a  crowd. 

From  the  fact  that  argument  is  commonly  oral  arises  the 
necessity  of  stricter  unity  (page  38).  The  conditions  of 
oral  address  demand,  not  many,  but  much.  The  message, 
that  it  may  be  heard  as  a  whole,  must  not  be  divided  into 
many  parts,  but  iterated  in  a  few  aspects  and  in  these  de- 
veloped fully.  A  speech  cannot  include  so  many  points  as 
an  essay.  The  difference  arises  from  the  greater  strain  on 
attention  and  memory,  both  from  hearing  as  compared  with 
seeing  and  from  argument  as  compared  with  less  focused 
discussion.  For  the  same  reasons  argument  is  stricter  also 
in  coherence.  Transitions  to  be  caught  by  the  ear  alone 
must  be  more  obvious.  And  in  a  large  sense  an  effective 
argument  is  always  worth  more  than  the  sum  of  its  parts. 
Its  progress  is  far  more  than  mere  enumeration.  It  has  a 
certain  force  of  momentum,  and  still  greater  force  in  such 
order  as  makes  each  paragraph  lead  to  the  next.  Enumera- 
tion, rarely  effective  even  in  writing,  is  in  speaking  quite 
futile.  Since  in  argument  a  given  point  thus  contributes 
more  by  its  position,  there  is  greater  need  of  care  in  the  plan 
and  adjustment  of  paragraphs  (page  44). 


134  ORAL  ADDRESS 

The  paragraph  plan  is  quite  distinct  from  the  tabular 
analysis  above  (page  100).  That  is  to  survey  the  material; 
this  is  to  organize  the  presentation.  The  analysis  tells  a 
debater  how  a  certain  fact  or  argument  comes  in  logically. 
He  knows  where  it  is  among  his  notes.  He  can  put  his 
finger  on  it.  But  the  analysis  does  not  tell  him  at  what 
point  in  the  course  of  his  speech  he  can  use  that  fact  most 
effectively;  it  does  not  determine  the  order  of  his  para- 
graphs. The  analysis,  for  instance,  always  puts  the  main 
conclusion  first,  the  supporting  reasons  afterwards;  but 
often,  for  effective  speaking  or  writing,  the  better  order 
would  be  just  the  reverse;  often  we  gain  by  leading  up  to  a 
conclusion  rather  than  by  announcing  it  before  we  prove  it. 
Again,  the  analysis  takes  no  account  of  iteration  and  of 
bringing  home  at  the  close.  Nor  does  it  tell  always  how  to 
proportion  the  space.  One  of  the  subordinate  points  — 
subordinate  in  the  sense  of  proving  a  point  indirectly  — 
may  deserve  more  time  than  a  main  point.  The  main 
points,  of  course,  are  the  main  things  to  bring  out;  but, 
since  they  depend  on  the  reasons  written  imder  them  in 
the  analysis,  it  sometimes  takes  longer  to  establish  these 
supporting  reasons  than  to  draw  the  conclusion.  Finally, 
the  analysis  is  often  too  elaborate  to  speak  from.  A  speech 
needs  a  fairly  simple  plan  in  order  to  be  followed.  All 
this  means,  not  that  the  system  of  analysis  is  defective,  but 
that  it  is  not  meant  to  speak  or  write  from.  It  is  adapted 
rather  to  studying  a  subject  than  to  presenting.  No  sin- 
gle plan  can  thoroughly  well  serve  both  these  purposes 
when  the  reading  required  is  at  all  extensive.  Therefore 
it  is  better,  after  making  an  analysis,  to  make  also  a  para- 
graph plan. 

Nor  is  the  making  of  two  plans  a  waste  of  time.  Really 
it  is  economical  to  do  these  two  things  separately  instead 
of  jumbling  them  together.    And  the  two  plans  will  not 


SPEAKING  AND  WRITING  135 

differ  entirely.  The  order  of  main  points  will  probably  be 
the  same  in  both;  it  is  only  the  supporting  points  that  are 
likely  to  need  rearrangement.  But  the  paragraphs  should 
be  planned  without  reference  to  the  numbers  of  the  brief. 
A  with  all  its  subheadings  may,  perhaps,  go  well  into  one 
paragraph,  while  1  under  B,  perhaps,  needs  a  paragraph  to 
itself,  or  even  b  under  2  under  B.  In  planning  paragraphs 
we  are  planning  stages  by  which  to  lead  our  hearers  along 
steadily.  We  are  thinking  solely  of  the  coherence  of  the 
whole  and  of  the  amplification  needed  by  a  given  part. 
By  disregarding  the  divisions  of  the  brief,  which  were  made 
for  another  purpose,  we  set  ourselves  free  to  think  solely 
of  effective  order. 

An  argumentative  speech  is  said  traditionally  to  consist 
of  (1)  introduction,  (2)  statement  of  facts,  (3)  proof,  (4)  refu- 
tation, (5)  conclusion.  1  These  are  rather  elements  than 
parts.  They  give  httle  hint  of  order.  Refutation  is  not 
commonly  separate  from  direct  proof,  nor  necessarily  sub- 
sequent. Even  the  statement  of  facts,  though  it  naturally 
precedes  proof,  is  not  always  given  first  in  its  entirety; 
and  sometimes,  by  its  emphasis  on  certain  aspects,  it  is  in 
effect  argumentative.  But  there  is  suggestion  in  the  tradi- 
tional counsels  as  to  the  introduction  and  the  conclusion. 
The  object  of  the  former  is  to  make  the  audience  sympa- 
thetic, attentive,  and  ready  to  learn. ^  This  is  so  vital  that 
it  should  nqver  be  left  to  mere  formality.  How  to  take  hold 
of  audience  and  subject  so  as  to  bring  the  two  together 
promptly  demands  separate   study  for   every  speech.^    In 

*  The  traditional  Latin  terms  are:  (1)  exordium,  (2)  narratio, 
(3)  confirmatio,  (4)  confutatio,  (5)  peroratio. 

2  In  Cicero's  words  the  traditional  counsel  is:  reddere  avditores  bene- 
volos,attentos,  dodles. 

'  For  analysis  of  the  persuasive  opening  of  St.  Paul's  Areopagus 
speech  (Acts  xvii.  22)  see  the  author's  The  English  Bible  as  a  Guide  to 
Writing,  pages  9-14. 


136  ORAL  ADDRESS 

particular  there  must  be  no  risk  of  misunderstanding. 
However  sympathetic  and  attentive,  the  audience  usually 
needs  at  the  start  some  information  and  such  direction  of 
thought  as  will  open  the  import  of  the  argument.  Whether 
by  removal  of  known  misconceptions,  or  by  connection  with 
what  is  familiar,  or  by  forecast,  the  minds  of  the  audience 
must  be  opened.  The  conclusion,  again,  should  not  be 
thought  of  as  a  formality,  a  sort  of  Q.  E.  D.  It  may,  in- 
deed, iterate  and  recapitulate;  but  its  great  opportunity 
is  to  show  how  far  the  argument  reaches,  how  wide  are  its 
relations,  how  deep  its  significance.  This  is  why  the  per- 
oration is  traditionally  the  best  place  for  appeal  to  feeling. 
Unless  the  audience  is  stirred  at  the  end,  the  speech  has 
probably  failed.  With  the  conclusion  settled  as  the  point 
of  outlook  at  which  to  arrive,  and  with  the  introduction 
devised  to  make  the  start  sure,  fair  progress  has  been  made 
in  organizing  the  material  for  effective  order. 

1.  Speaking  from  Outline^ 

For  any  kind  of  speech,  the  final  stage  of  preparation  had 
better  be  by  speaking.  The  plan  by  paragraphs  once  settled, 
that  paragraph  which  promises  to  be  easiest  may  be  de- 
veloped orally,  spoken  off  consecutively  from  beginning  to 
end.  This  first  oral  form,  though  it  may  be  rough  and  halt- 
ing, will  show  whether  the  discussion  of  that  point  is  full 
enough  to  be  clear  and  Uvely  enough  to  be  interesting. 
Better  still,  it  will  begin  the  habit  of  public  speaking  by  giv- 
ing the  sense  of  actually  addressing  an  audience.  Imagine 
hearers  before  you.  Try  by  all  means  to  make  the  point 
clear.  Exemplify,  taking  up  a  card  now  and  then  if  there  is 
need  to  cite  authority;  iterate  and  contrast,  putting  the 
idea  in  different  ways  imtU  it  must  be  clear;    illustrate  by 

*  Sections  1,  2,  and  3  axe  adapted  from  the  author's  Writing  and 
Speaking. 


SPEAKING  FROM  OUTLINE  137 

some  familiar  and  interesting  parallel;  and  close  by  repeat- 
ing the  point  emphatically  (page  51).  Instead  of  stopping 
to  choose  words  or  correct  sentences,  speak  straight  on  to 
the  end,  deliberately,  but  without  long  pauses.  Then,  after 
thinking  how  to  express  the  point  more  exactly  or  strongly, 
speak  the  whole  paragraph  a  second  time.  In  this  way  each 
paragraph  may  be  developed  orally  in  spare  moments. 

In  addition,  the  whole  speech  should  be  spoken  through 
without  interruption  from  beginning  to  end.  Oral  prepara- 
tion makes  the  speaker  ready  positively  because  he  knows 
exactly  what  he  is  to  say,  negatively  because  he  is  not 
bound  to  recall  it  in  certain  fixed  words.  For  by  the  method 
of  oral  development,  though  no  paragraph  will  be  said  twice 
in  exactly  the  same  words,  the  whole  will  be  at  command. 
The  important  words  will  be  readily  remembered;  and,  what 
is  of  greater  consequence,  the  speaker  will  be  free  to  look 
his  audience  in  the  eye,  confident  of  each  thought,  and  of 
its  place  and  method  of  development,  and  ready  to  adapt 
his  words  as  he  sees  opportunity.  The  way  to  learn  to 
speak  is  by  speaking. 

It  is  not  by  writing.  To  write  a  speech  out  in  full  after 
it  has  been  prepared  orally  is  excellent  practise  in  revision; 
to  write  it  out  in  full  before  it  is  spoken  will  probably  con- 
denm  the  writer  either  to  read  it  aloud  or  to  learn  it  by 
heart.  Neither  reading  nor  memorizing  gives  much  prac- 
tise in  public  speaking.  Neither  develops  the  real  power  of 
the  platform,  the  power  to  appeal  to  an  audience  directly. 
In  reading  aloud,  the  manuscript  seems  to  come  between 
speaker  and  hearers,  and  often  gives  an  impression  of  unre- 
ality, as  if  the  words  were  those  of  a  third  person.  In 
speaking  from  memory,  the  necessity  of  recalling  the  exact 
words  distracts  the  speaker's  attention  from  his  hearers.  He 
is  not  directly  pleading  with  them;  he  is  reciting  to  them; 
and  they  quickly  feel  the  difference.    It  distracts  his  atten- 


138  ORAL  ADDRESS 

tion  also  from  his  own  thoughts  and  feelings;  for  these  he 
is  no  longer  uttering  spontaneously,  but  recalling  in  certain 
fixed  expressions.  No  student  will  gain  much  power  in 
public  speaking  so  long  as  he  confines  himself  to  writing. 

The  preparation  of  a  speech  by  speaking  it  several  times 
from  a  paragraph  outline  has  other  marked  advantages. 
At  the  very  first  trial  it  gives  confidence  by  accustoming 
the  speaker  to  the  soimd  of  his  own  voice.  It  takes  off  the 
edge  of  his  first  stage  fright.  Secondly,  it  teaches  adapta- 
tion to  the  audience.  Phrases  that  look  well  enough  on 
paper  often  sound  inappropriate  or  insincere  when  they  are 
uttered.  Speaking  in  preparation  leads  the  speaker  to  adopt 
such  language  as  he  can  put  his  heart  into.  Thirdly,  it 
reveals  the  importance  of  paragraph  emphasis  as  a  means 
of  making  the  whole  coherent.  This  is  much  more  impor- 
tant for  speaking  than  for  writing;  and  its  importance  is 
revealed  by  the  act  of  speaking.  As  he  speaks,  one  feels 
that  he  must  not  leave  a  point  until  he  has  clinched  it;  he 
feels  that  before  passing  to  the  next  paragraph  he  must 
make  his  hearers  quite  sure  of  the  paragraph  that  he  is 
finishing. 

Again,  the  oral  development  of  a  paragraph  leads  naturally 
to  greater  fulness.  A  statement  that  might  sufl&ce  for 
reading  may  be  too  bare  for  hearing.  Feeling  this  lack  as 
he  speaks,  one  naturally  tends  to  iterate  more,  or  to  use 
more  examples  and  illustrations.  Speech  must  be  fuller 
than  writing.  The  very  process  of  speaking  may  reveal 
the  advantage  of  omitting  some  points  of  the  original  plan 
for  the  sake  of  expanding  others.  Here  is  a  direct  gain.  A 
speech  prevails,  not  by  numbers,  but  by  fulness.  The  idea 
of  covering  many  points  is  often  misleading.  A  speaker 
really  covers  no  more  points  than  he  can  make  his  hearers 
cover.  He  gains  nothing  by  hurrying  them  over  others. 
Not  manyy  but  much,  is  the  motto  for  speech-making.    Better 


SPEAKING  FROM  OUTLINE  139 

a  few  points  impressed  than  many  points  hurried.  An  audi- 
ence cannot  hurry.  To  digest  a  point  from  hearing  takes 
time.  Preparation  by  speaking  leads  to  due  ampUfication. 
But  perhaps  the  greatest  advantage  of  oral  preparation 
has  been  mentioned  already.  It  is  freedom.  **He  is  not 
tied  down  to  his  notes"  is  often  said  in  praise  of  a  speaker, 
and  justly.  When  is  a  man  tied  down  to  his  notes,  and  when 
not?  Notes  are  usually  necessary.  The  only  question  is 
how  to  use  them.  If  the  speaker  has  not  merely  arranged 
his  notes  and  made  a  plan  by  paragraphs,  but  also  written 
out  his  speech  in  full  before  speaking  it  at  all,  then  he  must 
remember  certain  words  or  falter.  But  if  he  has  composed 
his  speech  orally  from  outline,  he  is  quite  free  to  adapt.  The 
outline  being  easily  remembered  if  it  be  short,  or  held  in  the 
hand  if  it  be  long,  he  is  confident.  He  cannot  lose  his  way; 
and  in  speech-making  that  is  the  only  real  danger.  To  lose 
a  word  is  nothing.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  speaker  usually 
remembers  the  words  most  important  to  remember,  the  key- 
words or  clue-words.  These  become  fixed  in  his  mind  by 
recurring  in  the  oral  preparation.  But,  even  if  the  word 
escapes,  the  idea  remains  and  will  suggest  another  word. 
Thus  being  free  from  bondage  to  words,  he  develops  a. 
thought  or  a  feeling  with  the  force  of  real  discussion,  man 
to  man.  Looking  his  hearers  in  the  eye  —  the  speaker  from 
memory  is  often  afraid  to  do  that  —  he  makes  his  point 
sure.  If  he  sees  that  it  is  not  quite  grasped,  he  iterates; 
if  he  finds  his  way  of  talking  too  dry,  or  too  solenm,  or  too 
humorous,  he  changes  his  style.  For  oral  preparation  gives 
a  speaker  freedom  by  giving  him  flexibility.  He  is  free  to 
adapt.  He  can  expand  or  contract  or  modify  without  falter- 
ing. His  speech  is  not  cut  and  dried.  It  keeps  its  fresh- 
ness. True,  not  all  these  desirable  qualities  will  be  achieved 
at  once  or  without  pains;  but  the  point  is,  how  shall  our 
pains  be  spent?    Preparation  and  practise  are  necessary 


140  ORAL  ADDRESS 

either  way.    To  develop  skill  in  public  speaking,  let  the 
preparation  and  practice  be  largely  oral. 

2.  Debate 

The  power  of  such  direct,  free  speech  is  seen  best  in  debate. 
The  idea  of  debate  is  to  make  the  truth  prevail  over  opposi- 
tion. To  the  audience  it  gives  the  opportunity  of  under- 
standing a  disputed  matter  fully  by  hearing  both  sides. 
Among  all  civilized  peoples  this  is  a  recognized  way  of  settling 
public  questions.  To  the  debater  it  gives  the  opportunity 
of  fighting  for  his  beliefs.  In  order  to  make  his  proposal 
prevail,  he  has  to  test  both  his  own  reasons  and  those  of 
his  opponents.  Thus  debate  has  a  constant  twofold  value: 
it  informs  the  audience  in  the  liveliest  possible  way  on  mat- 
ters in  which  they  are  concerned;  and  it  develops  in  speakers 
a  habit  of  clear  and  thorough  thinking,  careful  investiga- 
tion, and  forcible  presentation.  Loose  thinking,  lazy  study, 
halting  presentation,  cannot  withstand  attack.  Debate 
puts  a  man  on  his  mettle.  He  has  to  know  his  reasons  and 
find  ways  of  recommending  them.  Fortifying  his  convic- 
tions, he  learns  how  to  make  others  at  least  respect  them, 
and,  if  he  succeeds  further,  adopt  them.  Thus,  of  all  kinds 
of  public  speaking,  it  calls  most  for  thoroughness,  directness, 
and  practical  adaptation.     It  is  composition  at  close  quarters. 

So  the  ideal  debate  is  on  a  question  really  important  to 
the  audience,  and  by  speakers  really  convinced  of  the  side 
for  which  they  speak.  Then  audience  and  speakers  alike 
have  the  greatest  zest  possible  to  any  form  of  composition, 
—  eagerness  for  the  outcome.  Though  these  conditions 
are  not  possible  always,  they  should  always  be  sought,  and 
they  can  be  attained  very  often.  First,  the  question  should 
be  of  real  interest.  It  need  not  be  a  burning  issue;  it  need 
not  be  new;  but  it  should  have  real  interest  for  the  debaters 
and  the  audience.    Nothing  takes  more  life  out  of  debate 


DEBATE  141 

than  unreality.  To  fence  with  words  over  a  matter  that 
no  one  cares  about,  or  without  any  audience  to  care,  is 
uphill  work.  It  may  give  a  certain  sort  of  practise;  but  at 
least  as  much  practise  can  be  had  from  live  questions. 
What  questions  are  alive  depends  on  the  community.  Every 
large  group  of  people,  every  town,  every  college,  every 
society  of  more  than  a  few  members,  buzzes  with  discussions. 
Whether  these  are  on  political  questions  suggested  by  the 
newspapers,  or  on  questions  of  history  suggested  by  books, 
or  on  town  questions  about  a  hospital  or  as  to  the  number 
of  saloons,  or  on  college  questions,  they  are  alive  if  people 
care  to  talk  and  hear  about  them. 

The  manners  of  all  public  debate  are  the  manners  of 
Congress.  A  debater  always  first  addresses  the  chair.  He 
refers  to  his  opponents  only  in  the  third  person:  "The 
speaker  who  has  just  taken  his  seat  contended,"  "as  the 
affirmative  has  asserted,"  "the  second  speaker  for  the  nega- 
tive," "our  opponents,"  etc.  He  avoids  all  language  that 
might  seem  to  impute  unworthy  motives.  He  challenges 
a  statement,  not  as  "false"  or  "untrue,"  but  as  "mistaken," 
"imfounded,"  "unwarranted,"  etc.  He  faces,  not  his  op- 
ponents, except  rarely  to  put  a  question,  but  the  audience. 
These  are  the  courtesies  of  debate.  Even  in  small  companies 
they  should  not  be  thought  irksome;  for  without  such  re- 
straint debate  easily  lapses  into  mere  wrangling.  A  debate 
implies  that  certain  disputants  have  agreed  to  hear  one 
another  out  fully,  in  turn,  without  interruption,  and  to 
leave  the  decision  to  a  third  party.  Debate  ought  to  be 
always  earnest  and  never  angry.  Quarreling  spoils  the  de- 
bate and  affronts  the  audience.  Without  learning  to  give 
and  take  courteously,  no  one  can  learn  to  debate  at  all.  To 
lose  one's  temper  is  often  to  lose  one's  case.  The  formal 
courtesies  of  debate  merely  embody  this  vital  principle  of 
restraint.    They  safeguard  the  high  value  of  debate  by 


142  ORAL  ADDRESS 

keeping  it  on  a  high  plane.  By  prohibiting  personaUties 
they  not  only  prevent  quarreling;  they  also  direct  attention 
from  the  speakers  to  their  arguments.  They  remind  us 
that  the  object  of  attack  is  not  the  man,  but  the  thing. 
They  bid  us  rebut,  not  men,  but  arguments.  They  imply 
that  the  truth  is  more  important  than  any  man.  The  desire 
to  display  oneself,  or  to  humble  an  opponent,  should  be 
sacrificed  to  the  single  aim  of  advancing  one's  cause.  Thus 
the  courtesies  of  debate  will  help  the  realization  of  its 
very  object. 

Honesty,  being  assumed  as  necessary  to  all  public  dealings, 
might  seem  hardly  worth  a  pause,  were  it  not  obscured 
sometimes  by  the  idea  of  cleverness.  Many  thought- 
less people  see  in  debate  httle  more  than  an  exhibition  of 
sharp  practise,  evasion,  twisting  of  words,  and  juggling  with 
facts.  And  some  debaters  seem  to  be  more  occupied  with 
laying  snares  for  their  opponents,  or  with  wriggling  out  of 
an  issue,  than  with  discussing  squarely.  They  seem  less 
anxious  for  a  battle  than  for  an  ambush.  Now  the  old 
maxim  that  honesty  is  the  best  pohcy  is  nowhere  stronger 
than  in  debate.  This  does  not  mean  that  debaters  must 
always  disclose  their  whole  case  at  the  start;  for  their 
opponents  may  fairly  be  kept  alert,  and  unexpected  turns 
are  a  fair  test  of  strength.  It  does  not  mean  that  debaters 
should  not  expose  to  the  full  an  adversary's  omissions, 
inconsistencies,  or  hasty  inferences;  for  the  exposure  of 
error  directly  advances  truth,  and  the  very  life  of  debate 
depends  on  making  one's  own  side  strong  against  the  other. 
Truth  will  be  best  served  in  the  end  by  each  debater's  doing 
his  very  best  for  his  own  side.  A  debater  is  responsible, 
not  for  the  decision,  which  belongs  to  the  judges,  but  for 
the  strength  of  his  own  case.  But  honesty  in  debate  does 
mean  a  purpose  to  meet  fairly  all  issues  fairly  involved  in 
the  question.    If  a  point  advantageous  to  your  opponents 


DEBATE  143 

is  not  brought  up  by  them,  you  are  under  no  obhgation  to 
mention  it.  That  is  their  lookout.  Your  duty  is  to  your 
own  side.  But  in  preparation  study,  not  how  to  evade 
your  opponents'  points  by  some  twisting  of  the  proposition, 
not  how  to  meet  them  falsely  by  statistics  that  you  know 
to  be  doubtful  or  insufficient,  but  how  to  meet  them  squarely. 
In  preparation,  again,  study,  not  how  much  can  possibly 
be  admitted  in  a  statement  of  facts  by  some  ingenious 
interpretation,  or  some  bias  suspected  in  the  audience  or  the 
judges,  but  how  much  should  be  admitted  by  an  impartial 
student.  Trickery  is  poor  debate.  It  usually  rebounds 
upon  the  tricksters;  for  their  opponents  will  probably  ex- 
pose it,  and  it  may  even  dim  the  value  of  their  soimd  argu- 
ments by  casting  suspicion  on  their  whole  case.  A  spirit 
of  fairness  is  of  itself  a  recommendation.  Trickery,  even 
when  it  succeeds  at  the  time,  fails  in  the  end.  It  fails  by 
missing  the  larger  and  more  important  training  of  debate; 
and  it  tends  to  paralyze  debate  in  that  conomunity  by 
cutting  a  nerve. 

a.   THE  METHOD  OF  DEBATE :  REBUTTAL 

The  peculiarity  of  debate,  as  distinguished  from  other 
forms  of  public  speaking,  is  give-and-take.  Debate  has 
to  be  adapted,  not  merely,  as  all  speaking  must  be  adapted, 
to  the  audience,  but  also  to  opponents.  Therefore  it  must 
be  of  all  forms  of  public  speaking  the  most  flexible.  The 
debater  must  have  a  twofold  readiness:  (1)  readiness  to 
advance  his  case  positively  by  urging  those  arguments  for 
it  which  are  his  part;  (2)  readiness  to  advance  his  case 
negatively  by  meeting  those  arguments  against  it  which 
have  been  urged  by  his  opponents.  The  former  demands 
in  general  merely  the  same  preparation  as  for  any  other 
form  of  public  speaking.  In  particular  it  demands  some 
leeway.    Instead  of  planning  for  the  whole  time  assigned, 


144  ORAL  ADDRESS 

the  debater  leaves  a  margin  for  answering  his  opponents. 
Though  a  second  speech  is  often  provided  for  each  speaker 
to  this  particular  end,  still  he  had  better  leave  room  for  it 
also  in  his  first  speech.  Thus  the  debate  will  be  a  debate 
throughout,  not  in  great  part  a  series  of  set  speeches. 

The  latter  kind  of  readiness  is  the  readiness  peculiar  to 
debate.  The  life  of  debate  is  rebuttal.  Preparation  for 
rebuttal  has  been  made  already  by  the  analysis;  for  this 
not  only  includes  answers  to  the  probable  attacks  of  the  other 
side,  but  also  shows  the  bearing  of  these  answers  on  the  whole 
case  (page  106).  Rebuttal,  to  be  effective,  must  be  more 
than  a  number  of  separate  answers  to  a  number  of  separate 
objections.  Like  the  positive  arguments,  it  needs  to  be 
grouped  under  main  points.  Thus  the  analysis  is  most 
useful  for  reference  in  showing  what  a  set  of  objections 
amounts  to  as  a  whole.  By  its  aid  a  debater  can  more 
quickly  group  his  rebuttal  so  as  to  show  that  the  attack 
has  left  his  case  strong.  Such  readiness  makes  the  rebuttal 
tell  as  a  whole,  not  merely  as  a  number  of  answers.  Readi- 
ness to  rebut  consists,  not  merely  in  having  many  answers 
to  many  separate  small  points,  but  in  knowing  how  to  group 
these  effectively. 

For  the  same  reason  rebuttal  should  always  close  posi- 
tively by  showing  that  one's  own  side  remains  strong.  Thus 
it  should  seize  any  good  opportunity  of  reviewing  briefly 
the  whole  course  of  the  debate,  so  as  to  show  how  attack 
has  been  resisted,  or  where  it  has  been  weak,  and  to  expose 
any  weakness  of  positive  argument  on  the  other  side  as  a 
whole.  In  a  word,  rebuttal  is  not  confined  to  details.  It 
may  well  consider  also  the  whole  course  of  the  argument. 
And  this  it  must  do  in  the  final  speech  of  rebuttal  that 
closes  the  whole  debate.  For  the  close  of  a  debate,  like 
the  close  of  any  other  composition,  must  be  strong  and 
positive. 


DEBATE  145 

In  detail  the  preparation  for  rebuttal  is  a  process  of 
analysis.  It  analyzes  the  argument  of  the  opposition  to 
see  (1)  what  it  is  based  on,  and  (2)  what  it  amounts  to. 
Rebuttal,  that  is,  challenges  an  argument  by  asking  either 
(1)  How  do  you  know?  or  (2)  What  of  it?  (page  11).  In  other 
words,  it  challenges  either  (1)  the  evidence,  the  basis  of 
facts,  or  (2)  the  inference,  the  conclusion  drawn  from  the 
facts.  In  one  way  or  the  other,  sometimes  in  both,  rebuttal 
analyzes  an  argument  to  test  its  worth. 

Mexico  shovM  be  annexed  to  the  United  States.  As  one  argument 
in  support  of  this  proposition  it  is  asserted  that  the  Mexicans  are 
too  illiterate  for  stable  self-government.  How  do  you  know? 
Show  us  by  authoritative  statistics  that  the  percentage  of  illiteracy 
among  the  Mexicans  is  higher  than  among  peoples  having  a  stable 
self-government.  Rebuttal  never  lets  pass  a  general  assertion;  it 
always  pins  down  to  particulars,  and  to  particulars  well  vouched. 
And  what  of  it?  Supposing  a  high  percentage  of  illiteracy  to  be 
established,  does  that  prove  the  advantage  of  annexation?  Will 
Mexico  lose  or  gain  in  the  end  by  dealing  herself  with  her  problem 
of  illiteracy?  Shall  we  lose  or  gain  by  annexing  an  illiterate  popu- 
lation? Stibsidies  shovld  he  granted  to  United  States  vessels  engaged 
in  trade  with  South  America.  In  support  of  this  proposition  it  is 
argued  that  transportation  between  the  United  States  and  South 
America  is  deficient.  How  do  you  know?  From  a  senator's  speech 
reported  in  a  newspaper.    But  the  number  of  sailings  entered  in 

the  last  report  of  the  Commissioner  of  Navigation  is ;  and  the 

Commissioner's  figures  are  superior  as  evidence  to  the  senator's 
general  assertion.  And  what  of  it?  Suppose  the  number  of  sail- 
ings to  be  smaller  than  is  desirable.  Would  increasing  the  number 
of  ships  be  the  best  way  of  increasing  the  trade?  Do  ships  pro- 
duce trade;  or  does  trade  produce  ships? 

Rebuttal,  like  all  other  argument  in  debate,  should  be 
real.  It  should  meet  the  points  that  actually  arise,  not 
merely  those  that  might  arise.  Preparation  for  debate 
must,  indeed,  forecast  what  the  opponents  will  probably 


146  ORAL  ADDRESS 

bring  forward;  but  it  can  rarely  forecast  exactly  what  will 
be  the  opponents'  line.  The  debater  must  be  ready  for 
anything  that  may  reasonably  arise;  but  he  must  actually 
meet  what  actually  does  arise.  Else  debate  becomes  a 
series  of  set  speeches.  It  ceases  to  be  a  combat.  Skill  in 
rebuttal  comes  largely  from  meeting  opportunities.  To 
this  end  the  first  means  is  a  habit  of  hstening.  A  good 
debater  is  a  good  Hstener.  He  is  quick  to  seize  what  his 
opponent  says  —  not  the  ten  or  dozen  things  that  he  says, 
but  the  single  thing,  or  the  few  things,  in  which  they  may 
be  all  summed  up  (page  144).  He  learns  to  analyze  and 
summarize  as  he  hears.  Now  if,  on  the  contrary,  he  is 
absorbed  in  what  he  proposed  to  say  himself,  or  if  the  first 
point  made  by  his  opponent  sets  him  to  running  nervously 
over  his  notes,  he  is  likely  to  lose  his  chance.  The  only 
way  to  meet  the  actual  opportunities  of  debate  is  to 
listen,  to  Hsten  intently,  to  seize  the  main  point,  and  then 
to  attack  that. 

This  does  not  involve  abandoning  one's  main  line  of 
argument.  If  that  has  been  well  considered,  it  will  remain 
good.  But  no  line  of  argument  should  be  planned  to  fill 
the  whole  time.  Space  should  be  left  for  adjusting  the  in- 
cidental rebuttal  according  to  the  actual  turn  of  the  debate, 
and  for  expanding  the  positive  argument  where  it  is  most 
heavily  attacked.  Far  from  abandoning  his  main  line,  a 
debater  should  never  let  himself  be  drawn  aside;  but  to 
ti^rn  aside  is  very  different  from  turning  to  meet  an  impor- 
tant argument.  For  any  important  argument  in  a  well 
prepared  debate  can  always  be  brought  to  bear  on  one's 
own  case.  Such  adjustment  demands  alertness;  and  alert- 
ness begins  in  cultivating  a  habit  of  listening.  Only  by 
listening  can  a  debater  learn  to  measure  quickly  which 
arguments  demand  most  attention,  and  how  to  rebut  them 
so  as  to  show  their  relation  to  his  own  positive  argument. 


DEBATE  147 

Debate  combines  into  one  effective  whole  not  merely 
many  arguments,  but  several  persons.  Its  success  depends 
less  on  brilliant  individual  speeches  than  on  the  working 
together  of  all.  It  prevails  by  combination.  ''My  col- 
league has  shown  you"  —  "We  have  insisted  throughout 
this  debate"  —  words  like  these  are  not  merely  formal; 
they  remind  us  that  a  debate  must  hang  together.  Divi- 
sion of  labor  should  lighten  research  by  making  each  debater 
responsible  for  one  main  group  of  arguments  and  the  facts 
on  which  they  are  based.  And  in  rebuttal  each  debater 
may  well  take  care  of  those  points  which  fall  within  his  own 
field.  But  the  case  as  a  whole  should  be  planned  by  all  and 
familiar  to  each  in  its  main  bearings.  Thus  any  speaker 
can  briefly  rebut  an  argument  which  will  be  met  in  detail 
by  his  colleague  who  has  that  group  in  charge,  but  which 
seems  to  demand  some  answer  at  once.  Each  debater,  re- 
garding himself  as  a  part,  should  be  ready  to  do  whatever 
the  debate  needs.  Though  he  may  foresee  a  chance  for 
eloquence  on  a  certain  point,  he  must  not  hesitate,  if  that 
point  is  slighted,  to  touch  it  lightly  for  the  sake  of  spending 
himself  where  he  is  needed.  Each  debater  should  make 
his  own  points  sure,  and  still  be  ready  to  help  the  others 
if  the  main  attack  falls  on  them.  Thus  debate  has  the  force 
and  the  pleasure  of  fellowship  in  contest. 

3.  Speeches  on  Occasions 

Public  speaking  is  of  three  general  kinds,  according  as  it 
is  directed  toward  the  past,  the  future,  or  the  present.  The 
first  kind,  looking  at  the  past,  is  forensic  oratory,  the  ora- 
tory of  lawyers  in  court.  Its  object  is  to  determine  in  a 
dispute  just  what  happened,  and  whether  it  was  right  or 
wrong  according  to  the  law.  The  second  kind,  looking  at 
the  future,  is  deliberative  oratory,  the  oratory  of  Congress  and 
of  all  other  public  discussion.    Its  object  is  to  determine  in 


148  ORAL  ADDRESS 

a  dispute  just  what  ought  to  be  done;  i.e.,  whether  a  pro- 
posed measure  is  wise  or  unwise,  expedient  or  inexpedient. 
The  third  kind,  occasional  oratory,  looking  at  the  present, 
seeks  to  make  an  audience  reahze  the  significance  of  an 
occasion.  The  first  kind  is  too  technical  for  consideration 
here.  The  second  has  been  discussed  already  under  the 
head  of  debate.  We  must  now  consider  the  third,  speeches 
on  occasions. 

Perhaps  the  instances  of  this  most  familiar  to  Americans 
are  Webster's  first  oration  at  Bunker  Hill,  and  Lincoln's 
at  the  dedication  of  the  cemetery  at  Gettysburg;  to  French- 
men, the  funeral  orations  of  Bossuet.  At  once  we  recog- 
nize in  these  speeches  a  distinct  kind  of  public  speaking. 
The  object  is  not  so  much  to  prove  or  to  explain  as  to  in- 
terpret. The  speaker  tries  not  so  much  to  make  us  under- 
stand as  to  make  us  feel.  His  aim  is  to  bring  some  event 
home,  to  mark  some  anniversary  or  other  public  com- 
memoration upon  our  hearts,  to  improve,  as  the  good  old- 
fashioned  phrase  puts  it,  —  to  improve  the  occasion.  It 
has  long  been  our  American  habit  to  observe  occasions  in 
this  way.  The  annual  Fourth-of-July  oration  has  returned 
after  a  period  of  noisier  demonstrations.  The  birthdays  of 
Washington  and  of  Lincoln,  Memorial  Day,  Thanksgiving 
Day  among  Americans  abroad,  and  other  public  holidays, 
have  always  been  commemorated  by  speeches.  The  im- 
veiling  of  a  tablet,  the  completion  of  a  monument,  the 
presentation  of  a  stand  of  colors  or  a  loving-cup,  school 
or  college  ''commencements,"  are  usually  marked  in  the 
same  way.  The  public  dinners  of  a  society  would  be 
otherwise  incomplete.  Many  sermons  are  occasional 
speeches.  In  short,  there  are  few  days  on  which  the  news- 
paper does  not  report  some  speech  on  an  occasion;  and 
among  such  speeches  we  find  some  of  the  best  oratory  of 
any  period. 


SPEECHES  ON  OCCASIONS  149 

How  can  an  occasional  speech  be  original?  Evidently 
not  by  conveying  new  information;  for  the  occasion  is 
usually  old  enough,  either  the  anniversary  of  an  event  often 
commemorated,  or  similar  to  a  hundred  other  occasions. 
Every  Commencement,  for  instance,  is  much  hke  every 
other  Commencement.  But  every  audience  is  somewhat 
different  from  every  other  audience;  every  community  has 
some  interests  peculiar  to  itself  or  to  the  time  of  speaking; 
and  every  speaker  sees  through  his  own  eyes.  There  is  the 
chance  for  originality.  The  subject  may  be  old;  but  it  has 
never  before  been  presented  to  those  people  by  that  speaker, 
and  this  year  gives  it  a  significance  unthought  of  last  year. 
Thus  occasional  speeches  offer  valuable  training  in  adapta- 
tion. Especial  attention  should  be  given  to  the  tone,  or 
manner;  for  the  chief  merit  of  an  occasional  speech  is  ap- 
propriateness. Keeping  a  clear  progress  of  thought,  avoid 
dividing  the  speech  in  the  formal  manner  proper  to  debate. 
The  commemoration  of  a  great  man  should  never  be  a 
chronological  summary  of  his  life.  Besides  being  tedious, 
that  is  too  much  like  reciting  from  the  cyclopedia.  Select 
such  aspects  of  his  character  and  career  as  appeal  most  to 
you  and  promise  to  touch  the  audience  at  that  particular 
time.  Occasional  speeches  give  an  opportunity,  impossible 
in  debate,  for  description.  There  is  no  better  way  of  im- 
pressing the  democratic  spirit  of  Lincoln,  for  instance,  than 
by  describing  certain  incidents.  The  younger  the  audience, 
the  more  room  for  description.  The  constant  aim  of  an 
occasional  speech  is  to  rekindle  interest  in  the  subject  by 
adapting  it  to  the  audience  and  the  time.  Its  originality 
consists  in  a  message  felt  by  the  speaker  and  brought  home 
to  the  hearers.    It  is  a  perennial  means  of  leadership. 


150  ORAL  ADDRESS 


4.  Revision  of  Oral  Address 


Though  it  had  better  not  be  written  out  in  full  until  it 
is  no  more  to  be  spoken,  a  speech  may  meantime  be  revised. 
Oral  revision  will  give  practise  in  enunciation,  in  the  placing 
of  the  voice,  in  variation  of  pitch.  Beyond  these  physical 
matters  revision  may  proceed  both  orally  and  by  writing 
to  readjust  paragraphs  and  sentences  and  to  sharpen  the 
diction.  Revision  of  oral  paragraphs  most  frequently  means 
either  amplification  for  clearness  or  iteration  at  the  end  for 
emphasis  and  transition  (page  51).  Revision  of  oral  sen- 
tences is  guided  generally  by  such  familiarity  with  the  sound 
of  good  oral  prose  as  comes  from  reading  aloud  and  reciting. 
Specifically,  change  in  the  cadence,  or  rhythm  of  the  sen- 
tence close,  may  improve  either  the  emphasis  of  the  sentence 
(page  59)  or  the  variety  of  the  paragraph.  For  monotony 
means  sameness  in  sentence  rhythm. 

The  writing  of  certain  passages  may  be  helpful  in  such 
revision  and  even  necessary  in  securing  precision,  especially 
in  definitions  and  distinctions.  Therefore  the  statement  of 
facts  naturally  makes  more  use  of  writing  in  both  preparation 
and  revision.  Scrutiny  of  definitions  is  the  only  way  to 
avoid  begging  the  question.  Expressions  that  give  apparent 
support  to  a  proposition  by  merely  stating  it  in  other  terms 
are  said  to  "beg  the  question."  The  government  of  England 
is  more  representative  than  ours;  for  it  answers  more  truly  the 
will  of  the  people.  The  second  member  of  that  sentence  begs 
the  question  by  bringing  forward  as  an  argument  what  is 
really  nothing  but  a  restatement.  "Answers  more  truly  the 
will  of  the  people,"  is  only  another  way  of  saying,  "more 
representative."  Writing  cannot  he  taught.  If  a  man  has  the 
natural  ability  to  write,  he  mill  learn  for  himself;  if  he  has  not, 
no  teaching  mil  make  him  a  writer.  This  is  more  plausible; 
but,  when  we  scrutinize  the  terms,  we  find  that  writing  in 


REVISION  OF  ORAL  ADDRESS  151 

the  first  sentence  covers  more  than  write  and  writer  in  the 
second.  The  first  sentence  is  a  proposition  about  writing 
in  general.  The  second  sentence  tries  to  prove  this  by  as- 
sertions about  that  particular  excellence  in  writing  which 
is  called  Uterary.  Therefore  the  opponent  should  ask  at 
once,  What  do  you  mean  by  writing?  If  you  mean  litera- 
ture, there  is  little  debate  left.  We  are  not  here  to  maintain 
that  the  writing  of  poetry,  for  instance,  can  be  taught. 
But  if  you  mean  writing  in  general,  including  reports,  letters, 
essays,  speeches,  descriptions,  etc.,  then  yom*  reason  does 
not  apply.     It  begs  the  question. 

Besides  precision,  the  revision  of  words  has  to  consider 
aptness.  A  speech  right  enough  in  plan  and  precision  may 
be  wrong  in  tone.  That  is,  words  must  be  scrutinized  not 
only  as  to  how  they  are  meant,  but  also  as  to  how  they  will 
be  received.  Though  the  tone  of  the  whole  speech  must 
be  determined  by  the  tact  and  experience  of  the  individual, 
it  is  worth  while  to  remember  that  often  an  unfortunate 
impression  can  be  avoided  by  revision  of  a  single  passage, 
or  even  of  a  few  words.  The  idea  is  not,  of  course,  to  com- 
promise one's  intention,  but  to  open  the  way  for  it  by  using 
words  that  do  not  arouse  prejudice. 

Beyond  both  precision  and  aptness  in  words  is  the  idea 
of  force.  A  speech  well  planned  and  expressed  both  pre- 
cisely and  aptly  might  still  fail  to  move.  Though  such  a 
defect  could  never  be  in  words  only,  but  always  in  the  con- 
ception behind  them,  still  it  can  be  reached  in  revision 
through  words.  Why  does  this  passage  soxmd  cold?  Why 
does  the  statement  here  seem  inadequate  to  the  importance 
of  the  point?  How  shall  this  be  brought  home?  Such 
questions  should  at  once  suggest  a  larger  use  of  the  concrete 
(page  85).  What  hearers  may  find  unfamiliar  or  doubtful 
they  need  to  imagine,  to  visualize  as  if  it  were  enacted  before 
them.    Evidence  must  be  formulated,  of  course;    but  it 


152  ORAL  ADDRESS 

must  also  be  conveyed.  The  speaker's  task  includes  the 
bringing  of  his  reasoning  home,  the  translation  of  the  ab- 
stract into  the  concrete.  Thus  Lincoln  in  rebutting  Douglas 
brings  home  the  distinction  between  political  equality  and 
social  equality. 

But  the  Judge  (Douglas)  will  have  it  that  if  we  do  not  confess 
that  there  is  a  sort  of  inequality  between  the  white  and  black 
races  which  justifies  us  in  making  them  slaves,  we  must  then 
insist  that  there  is  a  degree  of  equality  that  requires  us  to  make 
them  our  wives. 

—  Debate  vnth  Douglas  at  Galeshurgh,  October  7,  1858. 

So  Henry  W.  Grady  made  a  northern  audience  see  the 
barrier  interposed  by  the  negro  problem  to  inmiigration 
from  the  North  into  the  South. 

That,  Sir,  is  the  picture  and  the  promise  of  my  home  —  a  land 
better  and  fairer  than  I  have  told  you,  and  yet  but  fit  setting,  in  its 
material  excellence,  for  the  loyal  and  gentle  quaUty  of  its  citizen- 
ship. Against  that,  Sir,  we  have  New  England,  recruiting  the  Re- 
public from  its  sturdy  loins,  shaking  from  its  overcrowded  hives 
new  swarms  of  workers,  and  touching  this  land  all  over  with  its 
energy  and  its  courage.  And  yet,  while  in  the  El  Dorado  of  which 
I  have  told  you,  but  fifteen  per  cent,  of  lands  are  cultivated,  its 
mines  scarcely  touched,  and  its  population  so  scant  that,  were  it  set 
equidistant,  the  sound  of  the  human  voice  could  not  be  heard  from 
Virginia  to  Texas;  while  on  the  threshold  of  nearly  every  house  in 
New  England  stands  a  son,  seeking  with  troubled  eyes  some  new 
land  to  which  to  carry  his  modest  patrimony,  —  the  strange  fact 
remains  that  in  1880  the  South  had  fewer  Northern-born  citizens 
than  she  had  in  1870  —  fewer  in  1870  than  in  1860.  Why  is  this? 
Why  is  it.  Sir,  though  the  sectional  line  be  now  but  a  mist  that  the 
breath  may  dispel,  fewer  men  of  the  North  have  crossed  over  it  to 
the  South  than  when  it  was  crimson  with  the  best  blood  of  the 
Republic,  or  even  when  the  slaveholder  stood  guard  every  inch  of 
its  way? 


REVISION  OF  ORAL  ADDRESS  153 

There  can  be  but  one  answer.    It  is  the  very  problem  we  are 
now  to  consider.    The  key  that  opens  that  problem  will  unlock  to 
the  world  the  fairer  half  of  this  Republic,  and  free  the  halted  feet 
of  thousands  whose  eyes  are  already  kindled  with  its  beauty. 
—  Speech  at  the  Annual  Banquet  of  the  Merchants'  Association, 

Boston,  December,  1889. 

Such  concreteness  is  just  as  much  a  habit  of  experienced 
orators  as  is  care  in  evidence  and  cogency  of  arrangement. 
How  did  Burke  present  his  argument  from  American  fish- 
eries? Not  by  statistics  alone,  but  by  such  concrete  words 
as  stirred  the  sympathy  of  his  hearers  by  suggesting  pictures 
to  their  imagination. 

And  pray,  Sir,  what  in  the  world  is  equal  to  it?  Pass  by  the 
other  parts,  and  look  at  the  manner  in  which  the  people  of  New 
England  have  of  late  carried  on  the  whale  fishery.  Whilst  we  fol- 
low them  among  the  tumbhng  mountains  of  ice,  and  behold  them 
penetrating  into  the  deepest  frozen  recesses  of  Hudson's  Bay  and 
Davis'  Straits,  whilst  we  are  looking  for  them  beneath  the  Arctic 
Circle,  we  hear  that  they  have  pierced  into  the  opposite  region  of 
polar  cold,  that  they  are  at  the  Antipodes,  and  engaged  under  the 
frozen  Serpent  of  the  South.  Falkland  Island,  which  seemed  too 
remote  and  romantic  an  object  for  the  grasp  of  national  ambition, 
is  but  a  stage  and  resting-place  in  the  progress  of  their  victorious 
industry.  Nor  is  the  equinoctial  heat  more  discouraging  to  them 
than  the  accumulated  winter  of  both  the  poles.  We  know  that 
whilst  some  of  them  draw  the  Hne  and  strike  the  harpoon  on  the 
coast  of  Africa,  others  run  the  longitude,  and  pursue  their  gigantic 
game  along  the  coast  of  Brazil. 

—  Burke,  Conciliation  wUh  America^  paragraph  30. 

Such  appeal  by  concrete  words  he  makes  again  and  again, 
now  in  a  single  sentence,  now  in  a  whole  passage: 

Already  they  have  topped  the  Appalachian  mountains.  From 
thence  they  behold  before  them  an  immense  plain,  one  vast,  rich, 
level  meadow,  a  square  of  five  hundred  miles.    Over  this  they 


154  ORAL   ADDRESS 

would  wander  without  a  possibility  of  restraint;  they  would  change 
their  manners  with  the  habits  of  their  life;  they  would  soon  forget 
a  government  by  which  they  were  disowned;  would  become  hordes 
of  English  Tartars;  and,  pouring  down  upon  your  unfortified  fron- 
tiers a  fierce  and  irresistible  cavalry,  become  masters  of  your  gov- 
ernors and  your  counsellors,  your  collectors  and  comptrollers,  and 
of  all  the  slaves  that  adhered  to  them.  Such  would,  and  in  no  long 
time  must,  be  the  attempt  to  forbid  as  a  crime,  and  to  suppress  as 
an  evil,  the  command  and  blessing  of  Providence,  "Increase  and 
multiply."  Such  would  be  the  happy  result  of  an  endeavour  to 
keep  as  a  lair  of  wild  beasts  that  earth  which  God,  by  an  express 
charter,  has  given  to  the  children  of  men. 

—  Conciliation  with  America,  paragraph  51. 

Yet  Burke  was  most  logical  of  speakers.  Analysis  shows 
his  briefs  to  be  models,  and  the  march  of  his  paragraphs 
irresistible.  His  chief  strength  is  his  movement;  but  his 
words  also  are  no  less  carefully  adapted  to  bring  each  point 
home.  Swift,  in  attempting  to  arouse  Ireland  against  a 
certain  coinage  act,  was  even  more  specifically  concrete; 
for  he  had  to  deal  with  people  of  much  less  average  educa- 
tion than  Burke  addressed  in  Parliament.  Thus  Swift's 
Drajrier^s  Letters  show  in  written  address  a  reliance  on  such 
simple,  homely  words  of  feeling  as  appeal  to  the  imagination. 

And  let  me  in  the  next  place  apply  myself  particularly  to  you 
who  are  the  poorer  sort  of  tradesmen.  Perhaps  you  may  think  you 
will  not  be  so  great  losers  as  the  rich  if  these  halfpence  should  pass; 
because  you  seldom  see  any  silver,  and  your  customers  come  to 
your  shops  or  stalls  with  nothing  but  brass,  which  you  Ukewise 
find  hard  to  be  got.  But  you  may  take  my  word,  whenever  this 
money  gains  footing  among  you,  you  will  be  utterly  undone.  If 
you  carry  these  haKpence  to  a  shop  for  tobacco  or  brandy,  or  any 
other  thing  that  you  want,  the  shopkeeper  will  advance  his  goods 
accordingly,  or  else  he  must  break  and  leave  the  key  under  the 
door.    "Do  you  think  I  will  sell  you  a  yard  of  tenpenny  stuff  for 


REVISION  OF  ORAL   ADDRESS  155 

twenty  of  Mr.  Wood's  halfpence?  No,  not  under  200  at  least; 
neither  will  I  be  at  the  trouble  of  counting,  but  weigh  them  in  a 
lump."  I  will  tell  you  one  thing  further,  that  if  Mr.  Wood's  pro- 
ject should  take,  it  would  ruin  even  our  beggars;  for  when  I  give 
a  beggar  a  halfpenny,  it  will  quench  his  thirst,  or  go  a  good 
way  to  fill  his  belly;  but  the  twelfth  part  of  a  halfpenny  will  do 
him  no  more  service  than  if  I  should  give  him  three  pins  out  of 
my  sleeve. 

III.  FORMS  OF  WRITTEN  ARGUMENT 

Written  argument  in  the  field  of  forensic  (page  147)  has 
two  recognized  forms:  the  brief,  and  the  opinion  of  court. 
A  brief  is  a  printed  summary  of  an  argument  to  be  pre- 
sented in  detail  orally.  Though  essentially  like  the  tabular 
analysis  above  (page  100),  it  is  less  strict  in  form  and  generally 
more  consecutive.  Usually  it  is  divided  into  (1)  statement 
of  facts  and  (2)  argument.  Its  object  being  to  present 
in  print  whatever  can  be  better  seen  than  heard,  it  is  quite 
exhaustive  in  citation.  Of  opinions,  the  most  significant, 
naturally,  emanate  from  the  Supreme  Court.  The  opinions 
of  Chief  Justice  Marshall  interpreting  the  Constitution 
during  the  early  years  of  the  nation  are  models  no  less  of 
composition  than  of  statesmanship.  Taking  a  large  survey, 
imfolding  the  general  implications  of  the  particular  case, 
they  reach  at  their  best  that  outlook  which  is  characteristic 
of  great  oratory.  The  high  standard  of  composition  thus 
set  at  the  beginning  seems  to  have  stimulated  later  opinions. 
In  many  cases  their  survey  of  public  policy  is  so  broad  as 
to  command  the  attention  of  the  whole  country,  as  is  clear 
from  the  fact  that  they  are  usually  printed  by  every  important 
newspaper  in  full. 

The  field  of  occasional  address  is  pre-eminently  oral. 
Written  commemorations  —  beyond  those  that  have  already 
been  spoken  —  are  rare;   and  of  these  few  most  are  of  a 


156  FORMS  OF  WRITTEN  ARGUMENT 

single  form,  the  editorial.^  Once  in  a  while  an  occasion  will 
inspire  an  "open  letter/'  as  detraction  of  Father  Damien 
roused  Stevenson.  For  written  appeal  the  great  field  is  the 
dehberative,  the  field  of  live  issues  and  public  questions. 
These  are  discussed  at  length  in  newspaper  supplement 
articles,  in  magazine  or  review  articles,  and  even  in  books; 
but  for  influence  on  public  opinion  and  action  far  the  most 
important  form  of  written  address  is  the  daily  newspaper 
editorial.  Often  largely  expository,  it  is  usually  argumenta- 
tive also,  and,  whether  by  argument  or  by  other  appeal, 
almost  always  aims  at  persuasion.  To  be  persuasive  briefly, 
without  any  of  the  aids  of  personal  presence,  and  upon  the 
general  public,  is  a  task  very  different  from  that  of  addressing 
a  particular  audience  orally.  The  necessary  terseness  can- 
not be  achieved  by  dry  formula;  in  written  appeal,  as  in 
spoken,  there  is  need  of  concreteness.  Though  there  can 
be  no  separable  introduction,  there  is  all  the  more  urgent 
need  of  taking  hold  suggestively.  And  no  form  of  com- 
position depends  more  upon  paragraph  emphasis  (page  51), 
upon  impressing  the  message  in  a  memorable  close.  In 
spite  of  these  difficulties,  or  perhaps  because  of  them,  no 
form  better  repays  practise.  For  it  comprises  within  its 
small  compass  all  the  essential  elements  of  persuasion. 

^  A  striking  instance  of  commemorative  editorial  is  "On   Bastile 
Day  "  in  the  New  York  Tribune  of  July  14,  1915. 


PART  II 
COMPOSITION  OF  IMAGES 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  METHODS  OF   IMAGINATIVE   COMPOSITION 
(DESCRIPTION) 

An  image  is  the  recollection  of  a  sensation,  the  calling 
to  mind  of  something  seen,  heard,  smelt,  tasted,  touched, 
as  if  it  were  present  to  the  senses.  Imaginative  expression, 
or  imagery  in  the  widest  meaning  of  the  word,  is  expression 
in  terms  of  sensation.  The  expression  of  an  idea  is  an  ab- 
stract generalization;  of  an  image,  is  concretely  specific. 
Poverty  expresses  an  idea,  abstract  and  general;  squalor, 
an  idea  less  abstract  and  general;  dirty  rag,  an  image  con- 
cretely specific.  The  word  sound,  as  used  above,  is  abstract 
and  general;  voice  is  less  abstract,  but  not  specific;  scream, 
mutter,  coo,  hoarse,  hiss,  are  concrete.  Such  terms  of  sight, 
sound,  smell,  taste,  touch,  arising  from  the  imagination  of 
a  writer,  in  turn  arouse  imagination  in  the  reader. 

Imaginative  realization  and  imaginative  appeal,  then, 
imply  terms  of  sensation,  concreteness,  imagery.  That 
these  are  necessary  to  bring  information  and  argument 
home  to  feeling  has  been  seen  again  and  again  (pages  30,  53). 
In  such  composition  imaginative  expression  is  incidental; 
there  is  another  field  of  composition  in  which  it  is  con- 
stant, the  field  of  poems,  stories,  and  plays.  Here  expres- 
sion is  habitually  concrete  because  imagination  controls  the 
method.  The  immediate  object  of  such  composition  is 
to  make  the  reader  feel  what  the  writer  feels  by  seeing  and 
hearing  in  imagination  what  the  writer  sees  and  hears. 
Far  from  precluding  thought,  such  composition  stimulates 
thought;   but  this  it  does  by  suggestion,  indirectly.    What 


160  IMAGINATION 

it  presents  directly  is  not  ideas,  but  images.  A  speech  or 
an  essay,  however  imaginative  in  parts,  proceeds  as  a  whole 
from  idea  to  idea.  Its  method  is  by  paragraphs.  Not  so 
a  poem,  story,  or  play;  none  of  these  proceeds  by  paragraphs, 
for  imaginative  composition  is  fundamentally  the  ordering, 
not  of  ideas,  but  of  images.  The  forms  of  poetry,  story,  and 
drama,  various  as  they  are,  all  alike  differ  from  the  forms  of 
discussion  in  certain  general  habits  of  composition.  This 
fundamental  two-fold  division  is  expressed  in  the  traditional 
terms  rhetoric  and  poetic.  For  by  poetic  the  ancients 
meant,  not  verse,  nor  merely  poetry  in  the  narrower  sense, 
but  also  story  and  especially  drama.  Thus  poetic  is  still 
a  suggestive  general  term  for  all  imaginative  composition 
in  words. 

What  the  ancients  thought  of  first  as  poetic  is  drama; 
that  is,  they  thought  first  of  imaginative  composition  in 
the  larger  aspects  of  movement.  This  is  not  because  Greek 
plays  were  in  verse.  That  Shakspere^s  plays  are  in  verse 
does,  indeed,  immeasurably  enhance  their  poetic  effect;  but 
it  does  not  bring  them  within  the  field  of  poetic,  any  more 
than  the  prose  of  most  modern  plays  rules  them  out.  For 
drama,  whatever  its  language,  is  poetic  as  composition.  So 
are  most  forms,  ancient  or  modern,  of  story.  Their  general 
difference  from  drama  is  that  their  methods  are  not  of  actual 
representation,  but  of  suggestion.  The  stories  that  have 
survived  are  those  that  are  most  suggestive  to  the  imagina- 
tion, that  conjure  up  significant  persons  and  scenes  most 
vividly.  Story-telling  is  an  imaginative  attempt  to  make 
the  hearer  or  reader  imagine  himself  in  that  situation  at 
least  as  an  observer,  often  as  a  participant.  We  enjoy  those 
stories  most,  perhaps,  in  which  we  are  made  to  imagine 
ourselves  the  actors.  The  permanent  interest  of  fiction, 
in  a  book  as  well  as  on  the  stage,  is  that  it  provides  vicarious 
experience.    Thus  poetic  interprets  life,  but  not  in  the  ways 


IMAGINATION  AS  INSIGHT  161 

of  rhetoric.  The  latter  gives  us  ideas  about  life;  the  former 
suggests  life  itself.  Rhetoric  tries  to  tell  us  how  to  live; 
poetic  tries  to  widen  and  deepen  our  living  by  enriching 
experience  through  imagination. 

That  there  are  certain  fundamental  habits  underlying 
different  forms  of  imaginative  composition  in  words  we  are 
reminded  by  such  poems  as  Browning's  Meeting  at  Night. 
Here  a  few  stanzas  carry  to  a  higher  degree  the  same  methods 
of  suggestion  as  those  used  with  greater  fulness  in  many  short 
stories.  Chaucer's  Troilus  and  Criseyde  has  much  the  same 
methods  and  effects  as  a  novel.  A  poem,  that  is,  may  be 
a  story  carried  to  its  highest  power.  This  same  poem  of 
Chaucer's  by  a  movement  distinctly  dramatic  brings  to- 
gether in  one  work  all  the  three  main  forms  of  poetic :  story, 
drama,  and  poetry.  In  all  these  forms,  whether  in  verse 
or  in  prose,  appear  certain  constant  habits;  and  the  experi- 
ence of  writing  the  simplest  story  is,  so  far  as  it  goes,  a 
poetic  experience.  Essentially  the  poetic  experience  consists 
of  imagination,  interpretation,  and  movement. 

I.  IMAGINATION 
1.  Imagination  as  Insight 
Imagination  means  primarily  having  images.  It  means 
being  aware  of  sights,  sounds,  and  smells;  and  therefore 
it  means  observation.  People  who  suppose  imagination 
to  be  quite  distinct  from  observation  have  observed  very 
little.  On  the  one  hand,  imagination  is  based  on  sensory 
images;  on  the  other  hand,  observation  is  not  merely  sense 
impression,  not  merely  staring  and  touchmg,  not  merely 
sight;  it  is  insight.  Imagination  is  based  on  observation, 
and  observation  is  guided  and  interpreted  by  imagination. 
The  two  are  complementary.  The  first  value  of  imagina- 
tion is  sympathy,  our  entering  emotionally  into  what  we 


162  IMAGINATION 

see.  Though  we  must  be  careful  and  honest,  able  to  tell 
what  we  see  without  distorting  it  by  what  we  feel,  we  cannot 
see  much  without  feeling.  Insight  implies  sympathy  —  or 
at  least  antipathy.  This  is  true  especially  of  observation 
of  people,  and  people  are  the  principal  subjects  of  writing. 
As  we  seek  human  interest  for  our  writing,  so  we  need  hu- 
man interest  for  our  observation:  Awareness  depends  on 
sympathy. 

From  observation  comes  also  imaginative  originality. 
This  will  sound  like  paradox  to  those  who  think  of  imagina- 
tion only  as  invention.  Imaginative  does  not  mean  imagi- 
nary; nor  is  it  limited  to  the  inventive  type  of  mind.  Even 
invention  depends  for  any  plausibility  ultimately  on  ob- 
servation; but  invention  in  writing  is  of  far  less  importance 
than  is  commonly  supposed  by  amateurs.  Shakspere's 
disregard  of  it  was  not  exceptional.  Invention  shows  in- 
genuity; it  is  entertaining;  it  is  important  in  such  minor 
forms  as  farce  and  detective  story;  but  it  is  hardly  ever 
essential.  Even  plot  is  not  pure  invention;  and  plot  is 
usually  less  important  than  characterization,  from  which 
it  often  springs.  ''Creation'*  of  character  is  not  invention, 
but  the  highest  reach  of  observation.  We  measure  char- 
acterization in  a  play  or  story  as  we  measure  the  conception 
of  a  lyric,  by  what  we  call  its  truth  to  life,  that  is  by  its 
insight. 

SAP 

Strong  as  the  sea,  and  silent  as  the  grave, 

It  ebbs  and  flows  unseen; 
Flooding  the  earth  —  a  fragrant  tidal  wave  — 

With  mist  of  deepening  green.^ 

And  in  general  originality  is  deeper  insight.  Such  in- 
terpretative observation  is  directly  promoted  by  imaginative 

J  From  Poems  by  John  B.  Tabb,  Boston,  1895. 


IMAGINATION  AS  INSIGHT  163 

expression.  We  look  and  listen  more  attentively  in  order 
to  be  specifically  concrete;  for  the  language  of  all  imagi- 
native composition,  whatever  the  form,  is  concrete.  Poetic 
speaks  in  terms  of  sensation  because  poetry,  as  Aristotle 
says,  is  an  imitation  of  life. 

2.   Imaginative  Expression  as  Concrete 

In  concrete  expression  drama  goes  beyond  the  other 
forms  of  poetic;  for  drama  is  actual  representation.  This 
demands  of  the  playwright  a  particular  faculty  of  visualizing, 
and  of  his  play  such  forms  of  expression  as  appeal  primarily 
to  the  eye.  A  play  is  a  composition  that  we  go  not  so  much 
to  hear  as  to  see.  The  action,  attitude,  and  gesture  of  a 
story  on  the  stage  must  not  be  lost  from  the  same  story 
told  in  a  book;  else  the  story  becomes  dull,  or  even  fails 
entirely.  For  story  as  well  as  drama  is  included  in  what 
Aristotle  means  by  imitation.  But  instead  of  being  literally 
seen  as  in  the  theater,  action,  attitude,  gesture,  and  setting 
in  a  story  have  to  be  imagined.  The  task  of  the  story- 
writer,  then,  is  to  make  me  imagine,  to  conjure  up  in  my 
mind's  eye,  to  suggest.  All  forms  of  imaginative  com- 
position in  words,  except  drama,  rely  mainly  on  suggestion. 
Suggestiveness  is  the  object  of  concreteness;  for  imagery, 
whether  figurative  or  literal,  springs  from  the  desire  to  sug- 
gest images.  And  not  only  the  choice  of  words,  but  the 
course  or  movement  of  the  composition  is  controlled  by  the 
idea  of  suggestion. 

Imaginative  suggestion  in  language  and  in  method  covers 
what  is  most  commonly  meant  by  description.  The  word 
description  is  used  also,  and  no  less  properly,  of  statistical 
specification,  as  in  a  mortgage  deed,  an  inventory,  or  other 
bare  enumeration  of  details.  The  language  and  method 
of  such  description  are  adjusted,  of  course,  to  their  object, 
which  is  information.    They  differ  so  sharply  from  imagina- 


164  IMAGINATION 

tive  suggestion  as  to  make  the  latter  stand  out  by  contrast. 
No  difference  in  expression  can  be  more  striking,  for  instance, 
than  that  between  two  descriptions  of  a  motor-boat,  aero- 
plane, or  other  locomotive  machine,  one  designed  to  explain 
it,  the  other  to  suggest  it  to  the  imagination. 

The  latter  sort  of  writing  is  more  commonly  meant  by 
the  word  description;  but  the  term  is  equivocal,  and  since 
description  in  the  latter  sense  is  usually  narrative,  we  have 
gained  little  by  using  the  word  as  if  it  were  distinctive. 
The  term  description  will  serve  our  purposes  only  if  we  keep 
in  mind,  first,  that  description  in  this  sense  is  quite  distinct 
from  description  in  the  other,  and,  secondly,  that  it  is  not 
distinct  from  story.  Description  is  merely  story  considered 
in  one  of  its  aspects,  namely  as  imaginative  realization.  In 
this,  stories  are  more  or  less  abundant;  we  may  say  that  a 
story  has  more  or  less  description,  or  that  it  has  this  or  that 
method  of  description;  but  some  description  it  must  have, 
nor  is  there  any  description  in  this  sense  which  is  not  some 
form  of  story. 

Imaginative  suggestiveness  may  come  from  sheer  abun- 
dance of  the  concrete.  For  suggestion,  though  it  can  never 
vie  with  representation  in  distinctness  and  intensity,  has  a 
compensation  in  range.  A  painting  presents  color,  a  statue 
form,  a  dance  rhythm,  more  distinctly  than  any  of  these 
groups  of  sensations  can  be  suggested  in  words;  but  the  sug- 
gestion in  words  may  be  more  various  than  any  one  of  them, 
including  appeals  to  all  the  senses  in  rapid  succession.  Thus 
the  first  lesson  of  imaginative  writing  is.  Be  abundantly 
concrete.  Use  words  —  verbs  as  well  as  adjectives  and 
nouns  —  not  of  sentiment,  but  of  sensation.  Richness  of 
suggestion  is  sometimes  enough  of  itself,  without  more  art, 
to  stimulate  imaginative  activity,  to  give  us  that  illusion 
of  being  in  the  situation  described  which  we  desire  when 
we  read  stories  and  poems.    As  fiction  has  its  chief  value 


IMAGINATIVE  EXPRESSION  AS  CONCRETE        165 

in  widening  emotional  experience,  so  its  fundamental  process 
is  to  call  up  images  of  physical  experiences. 

The  following  reminiscences  of  old  Paris,  which  are  hardly 
more  than  a  list,  show  the  suggestive  power  of  mere  con- 
creteness. 

And  the  way  to  these  was  by  long,  tortuous,  busy  thoroughfares, 
most  irregularly  flagged,  and  all  alive  with  strange,  delightful  peo- 
ple in  blue  blouses,  brown  woolen  tricots,  wooden  shoes,  red  and 
white  cotton  nightcaps,  rags  and  patches;  most  graceful  girls,  with 
pretty,  self-respecting  feet,  and  flashing  eyes,  and  no  head-dress 
but  their  own  hair;  gay,  fat  hags,  all  smile;  thin  hags,  with  faces  of 
appalhng  wickedness  or  misery;  precociously  witty  little  gutter  imps 
of  either  sex;  and  such  cripples!  jovial  hunchbacks,  lusty  bUnd 
beggars,  merry  creeping  paralytics,  scrofulous  wretches  who  joked 
and  punned  about  their  sores;  Hght-hearted,  genial  mendicant 
monsters  without  arms  or  legs,  who  went  ramping  through  the  mud 
on  their  belhes,  from  one  underground  wineshop  to  another;  and 
blue-chinned  priests  and  barefooted  brown  monks  and  demure 
Sisters  of  Charity,  and  here  and  there  a  jolly  chiffonnier  with  his 
hook,  and  his  knap-basket  behind;  or  a  cuirassier,  or  a  gigantic 
carbineer,  or  gay  Uttle  "Hunter  of  Africa,"  or  a  couple  of  bold 
gendarmes  riding  abreast,  with  their  towering  black  bonnets  d  poil; 
or  a  pair  of  pathetic  Uttle  red-legged  soldiers,  conscripts  just  fresh 
from  the  country,  with  innocent  hght  eyes  and  straw-colored  hair 
and  freckled  brown  faces,  walking  hand  in  hand,  and  staring 
at  all  the  pork-butchers'  shops  —  and  sometimes  at  the  pork- 
butcher's  wife! 

Then  a  proletarian  wedding  procession  —  headed  by  the  bride 
and  bridegroom,  an  ungainly  pair  in  their  Sunday  best  —  all  sing- 
ing noisily  together.  Then  a  pauper  funeral,  or  a  covered  stretcher, 
followed  by  sjnnpathetic  eyes,  on  its  way  to  the  Hdtel-Dieu;  or 
the  last  sacrament,  with  bell  and  candle,  bound  for  the  bedside  of 
some  humble  agonizer  in  extremis  —  and  we  all  uncovered  as  it 
went  by. 

And  then,  for  a  running  accompaniment  of  sound,  the  clanging 
chimes,  the  itinerant  street-criers,  the  tinkle  of  the  marchand  de 


166  IMAGINATION 

coco,  the  drum,  the  cor  de  chasse,  the  organ  of  Barbary,  the  ubiq- 
uitous pet  parrot,  the  knife-grinder,  the  bawling  fried-potato 
monger,  and,  most  amusing  of  all,  the  poodle-cHpper  and  his  son, 
strophe  and  antistrophe,  for  every  minute  the  Httle  boy  would  yell 
out  in  his  shrill  treble  that  his  father  cUpped  poodles  for  thirty 
sous,  and  was  competent  also  to  undertake  the  management  of 
refractory  tomcats,  upon  which  the  father  would  growl  in  his 
solemn  bass,  "My  son  speaks  the  truth"  —  L' enfant  dit  vrai! 

And  rising  above  the  general  cacophony  the  din  of  the  eternally 
cracking  whip,  of  the  heavy  cart-wheel  jolting  over  the  uneven 
stones,  the  stamp  and  neigh  of  the  spirited  little  French  cart-horse 
and  the  music  of  his  many  bells,  and  the  cursing  and  swearing  and 
hue!  dial  of  his  driver!    It  was  all  entrancing. 

—  George  Du  Maurier,  Peter  Ibbetson. 

So  it  is  concreteness  that  illuminates  diaries  and  letters, 
vivifying  even  humdrum  happenings  by  suggesting  their 
colors  and  sounds.  The  Reverend  Robert  Robinson  of 
Cambridge,  unknown  to  fame  and  doubtless  unimportant 
to  history,  with  even  less  attention  to  form  makes  himself 
almost  as  visible  to  our  imaginations  as  if  he  were  a  person 
in  a  novel. 

—  went  to  the  other  plough  —  picked  up  some  wool  and  tied 
over  the  traces  —  mended  a  horse-tree,  tied  a  thong  to  the  plough- 
hammer —  went  to  see  which  lands  want  ploughing  first  —  sat 
down  under  a  bush  —  wondered  how  any  man  could  be  so  silly  as 
to  call  me  reverend  —  read  two  verses  and  thought  of  his  loving- 
kindness  in  the  midst  of  his  temple  —  gave  out  "Come,  all  harmo- 
nious tongues"  and  set  Mount  Ephraim  tune  —  rose  up  —  whistled 

—  the  dogs  wagged  their  tails,  and  on  we  went  —  got  home  — 
dinner  ready  —  filled  the  pipe  —  drank  some  milk,  and  fell  asleep 

—  woke  by  the  carpenter  for  some  slats,  which  the  sawyer  must 
cut —  The  Reverend  Messrs.  A.  in  a  coat,  B.  in  a  gown  of  black, 
and  C.  in  one  of  purple,  came  to  drink  tea,  and  to  settle  whether 
Gomer  was  the  father  of  the  Celts  and  Gauls  and  Britons,  or  only 
the  uncle  —  proof  sheet  from  Mr.  Archdeacon  —  corrected  it  — 


IMAGINATIVE  EXPRESSION  AS  CONCRETE        167 

washed  —  dressed  —  went  to  meeting  and  preached  from,  The  end 
of  all  things  is  at  hand;  be  ye  sober  and  watch  unto  prayer  —  found  a 
dear  brother  reverence  there,  who  went  home  with  me,  and  edified 
us  all  out  of  Solomon's  Song,  with  a  dish  of  tripe  out  of  Leviticus 
and  a  golden  candlestick  out  of  Exodus. 

—  Robert  Robinson  to  an  "  Old  Friend,"  Chesterton,  May  26, 
1784  (reprinted  by  E.  V.  Lucas,  The  Gentlest  Art,  page  277). 

These  notes  —  for  they  are  no  more  —  carry  because 
they  are  specific,  not  statistically,  but  concretely.  As  sta- 
tistics the  details  are  beneath  notice;  as  images  they  give 
us  some  imaginative  experience  of  a  city  crowd  or  of  rural 
remoteness.  The  imaginative  realization  of  Robinson  Crusoe 
is  on  a  higher  plane;  but  it  is  essentially  the  same  in 
kind.  So  are  the  suggestions  of  a  good  letter,  such  as  this  of 
Thackeray's.  •        • 

1st  November,  1848. 
Dear  Mrs.  Brookfield: 

I  was  at  Oxford  by  the  time  your  dinner  was  over,  and  found 
eight  or  nine  jovial  gentlemen  in  black  feasting  in  the  common 
room  and  drinking  port  wine  solemnly.  .  .  .  And  we  walked 
in  the  park  with  much  profit,  surveying  the  great  copper-coloured 
trees,  and  the  glum  old  bridge  and  pillar,  and  Rosamond's  Well, 
and  the  queer,  grand,  ugly  but  magnificent  house,  a  piece  of  splen- 
did barbarism,  yet  grand  and  imposing  somehow,  hke  a  chief  rad- 
dled over  with  war-paint  and  attired  with  careful  hideousness. 
.  .  .  After  Blenheim  I  went  to  Magdalen  Chapel  to  a  High 
Mass  there.  O  cherubim  and  seraphim,  how  you  would  like  it! 
The  chapel  is  the  most  sumptuous  edifice,  carved  and  frittered  over 
with  the  richest  stone-work  Hke  the  lace  of  a  lady's  boudoir.  The 
windows  .  .  .  make  a  sort  of  rich  twihght  in  the  church,  which  is 
lighted  up  by  a  multitude  of  wax  candles  in  gold  sconces,  and  you 
say  your  prayers  in  carved  stalls  wadded  with  velvet  cushions.  .  .  . 

W.  M.  T. 

Such  expression,  distinct  from  statistics,  is  equally  dis- 
tinct from  general  or  abstract  sunamary.    The  so-called 


168  IMAGINATION 

Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle  thus  reports  the  Battle  of  Maldon 
in  the  year  991. 

This  year  came  Unlaf  (Olaf  Tryggvason)  with  ninety-three  ships 
to  Staines  and  laid  waste  all  around;  and  thence  he  went  to  Sand- 
wich, and  thence  to  Ipswich,  and  harried  it  all,  and  so  to  Maldon, 
and  there  Byrhtnoth  the  earl  and  his  force  came  against  him  and 
fought  with  him;  and  there  they  slew  the  earl  and  kept  the  battle- 
field. And  in  that  year  they  decided  to  pay  tribute  for  the  first 
time  to  the  Danes,  on  account  of  the  great  terror  which  they 
wrought  on  the  sea-coast.  — Cook  and  Tinker's  Translations  from 
Old  English  Poetry,  page  31. 

This  general  summary  gives  us  clear  ideas,  but  very  few 
images.  When  we  call  it  bald,  we  mean  that  it  lacks  sug- 
gestion. For  some  realization  of  this  fight  we  turn  from 
chronicle  to  poetry. 

Strode  the  battle-wolves  bold  through  the  water; 
West  over  Panta  waded  the  pirates; 
Carried  their  shields  o'er  the  shining  waves; 
Safely  their  hndenwoods  landed  the  sailors. 
Byrhtnoth  awaited  them,  braced  for  the  onslaught, 
Haughty  and  bold  at  the  head  of  his  band. 
Bade  them  build  the  bristhng  war-hedge. 
Shield  against  shield,  to  shatter  the  enemy. 
Near  was  the  battle,  now  for  the  glory. 
Now  for  the  death  of  the  doomed  in  the  field. 
Swelled  the  war-cry,  circled  the  ravens, 
Screamed  the  eagle,  eager  for  prey; 
Sped  from  the  hand  the  hard-forged  spear-head, 
Showers  of  darts,  sharp  from  the  grind-stone. 
Bows  were  busy,  bolt  stuck  in  buckler. 
—  Pancoast  and  Spaeth's  Early  English  Poems,  page  86. 

The  first  of  the  following  passages,  though  twice  as  long 
as  the  second,  is  much  fainter  because  much  less  concrete. 


IMAGINATIVE  EXPRESSION  AS  CONCRETE        169 

I  was  yesterday  about  sunset  walking  in  the  open  fields,  till  the 
night  insensibly  fell  upon  me.  I  at  first  amused  myself  with  all 
the  richness  and  variety  of  colours  which  appeared  in  the  western 
parts  of  heaven.  In  proportion  as  they  faded  away  and  went  out, 
several  stars  and  planets  appeared  one  after  another,  till  the  whole 
firmament  was  in  a  glow.  The  blueness  of  the  ether  was  exceed- 
ingly heightened  and  enUvened  by  the  season  of  the  year  and  by 
the  rays  of  all  those  luminaries  that  passed  through  it.  The  gal- 
axy appeared  in  its  most  beautiful  white.  To  complete  the  scene, 
the  full  moon  rose  at  length  in  that  clouded  majesty  which  Milton 
takes  notice  of,  and  opened  to  the  eye  a  new  picture  of  nature, 
which  was  more  finely  shaded,  and  disposed  among  softer  lights, 
than  that  which  the  sun  had  before  discovered  to  us. 

—  Addison,  Spectator,  565. 

.  .  .  when  the  sun  approaches  toward  the  gates  of  the  morning 
he  first  opens  a  httle  eye  of  heaven,  and  sends  away  the  spirits  of 
darkness,  and  gives  fight  to  a  cock,  and  calls  up  the  lark  to  matins, 
and  by  and  by  gilds  the  fringes  of  a  cloud,  and  peeps  over  the 
eastern  hills,  thrusting  out  his  golden  horns,  like  those  which 
decked  the  brow  of  Moses  when  he  was  forced  to  wear  a  veil  be- 
cause himself  had  seen  the  face  of  God. 

—  Jeremy  Taylor,  Holy  Dying,  Chapter  i. 

Richness,  variety,  majesty j  are  abstract  terms;  nor  is  there 
anywhere  in  this  description  a  phrase  so  specifically  concrete 
as  gilds  the  fringes  and  peeps  over.  The  difference  is  not 
that  the  second  passage  is  in  the  ordinary  sense  figurative, 
but  only  that  it  is  specific  and  concrete,  whereas  the  former 
is  largely  general  and  abstract.  The  following  sentence, 
which  has  no  figures,  is  none  the  less  vivid. 

Suppose  a  man  to  dig  up  a  galleon  on  the  Coromandel  coast,  his 
rakish  schooner  keeping  the  while  an  offing  under  easy  sail,  and 
he,  by  the  blaze  of  a  great  fire  of  wreckwood,  to  measure  ingots  by 
the  bucketful  on  the  uproarious  beach. 

—  Stevenson,  The  Wrecker,  Chapter  vii. 


170  IMAGINATION 

Suppose  a  man  to  raise  a  treasure  ship  in  the  tropics  and 
divide  the  booty  on  the  shore.  The  idea  is  the  same;  but 
what  a  difference  in  the  reahzation! 

Suggestive  expression,  then,  must  proceed  from  Uvely 
impression.  When  we  say  that  concrete  words  are  sharp, 
lively,  vivid,  or  forcible,  we  imply  not  only  that  they  sug- 
gest distinct  images  to  a  reader,  but  that  they  spring  from 
sharp  sensations  in  the  writer.  Sharp  sensations,  in  turn, 
imply  sensitiveness  and  attention  —  in  a  word,  observation. 
Thus  the  flatness  of  the  following  description  is  ultimately 
laziness.  The  writer  has  not  taken  the  trouble  to  describe; 
instead  he  has  repeated  vague  generalities. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  middle  of  the  bridge  we  were  struck  by 
the  extent  of  the  view.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  stretched  the 
beautiful  expanse  of  water  between  the  two  crowded  cities.  The 
water  was  dotted  with  vessels  of  every  sort  and  description.  Here 
was  a  grand  ocean  steamship  starting  on  its  voyage  across  the 
broad  Atlantic  and  filled  with  its  many  passengers.  There  was  a 
tugboat,  behind  which  came  several  barges  in  tow.  The  ferry  boats 
plied  back  and  forth  at  frequent  intervals,  bearing  crowds  of  pas- 
sengers in  either  direction.  The  tall  buildings  reminded  us  of  the 
manifold  business  activities  of  the  metropolis,  and  beside  the 
wharves  were  the  sailing  vessels  of  the  coasting  trade.  Directly 
before  us  was  Governor's  Island  with  its  old  fort  and  the  houses  of 
the  ofiicers,  looking  attractive  among  the  surrounding  trees.  Every- 
thing suggested  a  great  field  of  activity,  and  at  the  same  time 
pleased  the  eye  by  light  and  color. 

What  bird  is  described  in  the  following? 

The  bird  was  not  far  away  in  the  bushy  wood,  and  its  singing 
was  most  charming.  It  trilled  and  gurgled  and  whistled  with  many 
quick  and  unexpected  changes.  The  song  had  the  freedom  and 
strength  of  noble  music.  Some  of  the  notes  were  of  the  utmost 
purity  and  clearness,  and  they  seemed  to  penetrate  into  all  the 
region  about. 
—  CuFTON  Johnston,  Among  English  Hedgerows,  pages  46-47. 


IMAGINATIVE  EXPRESSION  AS  CONCRETE        171 

Though  we  say  rightly  that  these  descriptions  fail  for 
lack  of  specific  concreteness,  we  mean  further  that  the  writer 
was  not  really  observing.  For  it  is  inattention,  haste,  or 
insincerity  that  makes  expression  conventional  or  trite. 

It  was  a  gorgeous  moonlight  night  out  in  the  middle  of  the 
Atlantic  Ocean.  The  stars  seemed  brighter  than  usual  and 
sparkled  like  brilliant  diamonds  in  the  sky.  The  moon  shone  on 
the  water,  giving  it  a  silvery  look;  and  the  combination  of  nature 
in  all  its  moonlight  glory  and  the  peacefulness  of  the  whole  scene 
formed  a  sight  never  to  be  forgotten.  Suddenly  the  cry  of  "Man 
overboard!"  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night,  and  in  a  second  all 
was  in  an  uproar.  The  sound  of  running  feet,  the  sharp  cries  of 
the  sailors  in  the  act  of  lowering  the  life-boat,  and  the  tense  ex- 
citement of  the  passengers  formed  a  striking  contrast  to  the  scene 
a  few  minutes  before.  Complete  silence  had  changed  into  utter 
pandemonium. 

This  description,  in  design  and  in  phrase,  is  as  conventional 
as  a  valentine  or  a  wedding  cake.  When  we  say  that  it  is  not 
convincing  we  mean  that  we  receive  no  illusion  of  reality, 
that  the  expression  does  not  seem  true  to  impression.  For 
suggestiveness  is  derived  finally  from  truth.  The  object  of 
imaginative  composition  in  words,  as  of  painting,  is  to  make 
us  see  more  in  life. 

Most  eloquently  suggestive,  perhaps,  of  all  those  specific 
words  of  sensation  which  we  call  concrete  are  the  ones  which 
suggest  the  movements,  attitudes,  gesture,  and  speech  of 
people.  Thus  Chaucer  describes  dramatically  his  Panter- 
bury  pilgrims,  making  his  prologue  and  interludes  more 
vivid  than  the  tales  themselves.  He  even  describes  him- 
self  through  the  challenge  of  the  host. 

...  Our  hoste  japen  tho  bigan. 

And  than  at  erst  he  loked  upon  me. 

And  seyde  thus,  "what  man  artow?"  quod  he. 


172  IMAGINATION 

Thou  lokest  as  thou  woldest  finde  an  hare; 

For  ever  upon  the  ground  I  see  thee  stare. 

Approche  neer  and  loke  up  merily. 

Now  war  yow,  sirs,  and  lat  this  man  have  place. 

He  in  the  waast  is  shape  as  wel  as  I; 

This  were  a  popet  in  an  arm  t'enbrace." 

Canterbury  Tales,  1883-1891. 

So  the  host  describes  his  own  wife. 

.     .     .    Whan  I  bete  my  knaves, 

She  bringth  me  forth  the  grete  clobbed  staves, 

And  cryeth,  ''slee  the  dogges  everichoon, 

And  brek  hem,  bothe  bak  and  every  boon." 

And  if  that  any  neighebor  of  myne 

Wol  nat  in  chirche  to  my  wyi  enclyne, 

Or  be  so  hardy  to  hir  to  trespace. 

Whan  she  comth  hoom,  she  rampeth  in  my  face, 

And  cryeth,  "false  coward,  wreck  thy  wyf!" 

Canterbury  Tales,  3087-3095. 

So  we  can  see  the  pardoner  preaching. 

I  stonde  lyk  a  clerk  in  my  pulpet. 
And  whan  the  lewed  peple  is  doun  yset, 
I  preche  so  as  ye  han  herd  bifore 
And  telle  an  hundred  false  japes  more. 
Than  peyne  I  me  to  strecche  forth  the  nekke, 
And  est  and  west  upon  the  peple  I  bekke 
As  doth  a  dowve  sitting  on  a  berne. 
Myn  hondes  and  my  tonge  goon  so  yerne 
That  it  is  joye  to  see  my  bisinesse. 

Canterbury  Tales,  12326-12334. 

Abundance  of  the  same  sort  of  detail  —  of  attitude, 
physical  manner,  speech,  and  especially  gesture  —  enlivens 
so  different  a  work  as  the  Sentimental  Journey.  Thus,  for 
example,  Sterne  vivifies  the  interview  with  the  mendicant 
monk. 


IMAGINATIVE  EXPRESSION  AS  CONCRETE        173 

The  moment  I  cast  my  eyes  upon  him,  I  was  predetermined  not 
to  give  him  a  single  sou;  and  accordingly  I  put  my  purse  into  my 
pocket,  buttoned  it  up,  set  myself  a  little  more  upon  my  centre, 
and  advanced  up  gravely  to  him.  There  was  something,  I  fear, 
forbidding  in  my  look.  .  .  .  When  he  had  entered  the  room 
three  paces,  he  stood  still;  and,  laying  his  left  hand  upon  his  breast 
(a  slender  white  staff  with  which  he  journeyed  being  in  his  right), 
when  I  had  got  close  up  to  him,  he  introduced  himself  with  the  lit- 
tle story  of  the  wants  of  his  convent  and  the  poverty  of  his  order. 
.  .  .  "'Tis  very  true,"  said  I,  replying  to  a  cast  upwards  with 
his  eyes,  with  which  he  had  concluded  his  address;  "'Tis  very  true; 
and  heaven  be  their  resource  who  have  no  other  but  the  charity 
of  the  world,  the  stock  of  which,  I  fear,  is  no  way  sufficient  for  the 
many  great  claims  which  are  hourly  made  upon  it."  As  I  pro- 
nounced the  words  great  claims,  he  gave  a  sHght  glance  with  his  eye 
downward  upon  the  sleeve  of  his  tunic. 

The  images  suggested  most  readily  by  words  being  motor 
images,  the  sense  of  ourselves  participating  in  the  scene 
described  is  promoted  by  suggestions  of  gesture  and  other 
physical  movement.  We  feel  ourselves  clutching  the  side 
of  the  canoe,  or  tiptoeing  down  the  aisle,  or  leaping  the  fence, 
or  bowing,  or  lifting  a  hand  for  silence.  Such  details  are 
in  plays  actually  represented;  in  stories  the  suggestion  of 
them  induces  us  in  imagination  to  act  out  the  scene.  This 
fundamental  suggestive  value  is  enhanced  by  the  fact  that 
gesture  and  speech  are  expressive  of  what  usually  interests 
us  in  people  —  mood,  emotion,  character.  By  such  means 
the  apparition  of  Strafford  to  Charles  I  impresses  not  only 
ghostly  terror,  but  also  tragic  remorse. 

(Inglesant,  the  Esquire  in  waiting)  was  on  the  point  of  falhng 
asleep  when  he  was  startled  by  the  ringing  sound  of  arms  and  the 
challenge  of  the  yeoman  of  the  guard  on  the  landing  outside  the 
door.  The  next  instant  a  voice,  cahn  and  haughty,  which  sent  a 
tremor  through  every  nerve,  gave  back  the  word,  "Christ."  In- 
glesant started  up  and  grasped  the  back  of  his  chair  in  terror. 


174  IMAGINATION 

Gracious  Heaven!  who  was  this  that  knew  the  word?  In  another 
moment  the  hangings  across  the  door  were  drawn  sharply  back; 
and  with  a  quick  step,  as  one  who  went  straight  to  where  he  was 
expected  and  had  a  right  to  be,  the  intruder  entered  the  ante- 
chamber. It  wore  the  form  and  appearance  of  Strafford  —  it  was 
Strafford  —  in  dress,  and  mien,  and  step.  Taking  no  heed  of  In- 
glesant  crouched  back  in  terror  against  the  carved  chimney-piece, 
the  apparition  crossed  the  room  with  a  quick  step,  drew  the  hang- 
ings that  screened  the  door  of  the  privy  chamber,  and  disappeared. 
Inglesant  recovered  in  a  moment,  sprang  across  the  room,  and  fol- 
lowed the  figure  through  the  door.  He  saw  nothing;  but  the  two 
gentlemen  raised  themselves  from  their  couches,  startled  by  his 
sudden  appearance  and  white,  scared  look,  and  said,  "What  is  it, 
Mr.  Esquire?"  Before  Inglesant,  who  stood  with  eyes  and  mouth 
open,  the  picture  of  terror,  could  recover  himself,  the  curtain  of 
the  bedchamber  was  drawn  hastily  back,  and  the  Lord  Abergavenny 
suddenly  appeared,  saying  in  a  hurried,  startled  voice,  "Send  for 
Mayer n!  send  for  Dr.  Mayern!  The  King  is  taken  very  ill!"  .  .  . 
Inglesant  was  sent  for,  and  found  the  King  and  Abergavenny 
alone.  He  decUned  to  speak  before  the  latter  until  the  King  posi- 
tively commanded  him  to  do  so.  Deadly  pale,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  ground,  and  speaking  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  he  then  told 
his  story  —  of  the  deep  silence,  his  restlessness,  the  sentry's  chal- 
lenge, and  the  apparition  that  appeared.  Here  he  stopped.  "And 
this  figure,"  said  Abergavenny  in  a  startled  whisper,  "did  you 
know  who  it  was?"  "Yes,  I  knew  him,"  said  the  young  man; 
"would  to  God  I  had  not."  "Who  was  it?"  Paler,  if  possible, 
than  before,  and  with  a  violent  effort,  Inglesant  forced  himself  to 
look  at  the  King.  A  contortion  of  pain,  short  but  terrible  to  see, 
passed  over  the  King's  face,  but  he  rose  from  the  chair  .  .  .  and, 
with  that  commanding  dignity  which  none  ever  assumed  better 
than  he,  said—  "Who  was  it,  Mr.  Esquire?"  "My  Lord  Straf- 
ford." Abergavenny  stepped  back  several  paces  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands.  No  one  spoke.  Inglesant  dared  not  stir,  but 
remained  opposite  to  the  King,  trembUng  in  every  Umb,  and  his 
eyes  on  the  ground  like  a  culprit.  The  King  continued  to  stand 
with  his  commanding  air,  but  stiff  and  rigid  as  a  statue;  it  seemed 


INTERPRETATION  175 

as  though  he  had  strength  to  command  his  outward  demeanour,  but 
no  power  besides.  The  silence  grew  terrible.  At  last  the  King 
was  able  to  make  a  slight  motion  with  his  hand.  Inglesant  seized 
the  opportunity  and,  bowing  to  the  ground,  retired  backward  to 
the  door. 

—  J.  Henry  Shorthouse,  John  Inglesant,  Chapter  vi. 

Such  dialogue  includes  not  only  the  impression  of  the  person 
described  upon  the  imagination  of  the  writer,  but  also  his 
impression  upon  the  other  persons  in  the  scene.  It  is  thus 
doubly  suggestive,  both  directly  and  indirectly,  as  may  be 
seen  in  the  opening  stanzas  of  The  Ancient  Manner;  for  it 
approaches  through  suggestion  that  interaction  which  we 
see  on  the  stage.  And  the  suggestive  force  of  gesture  and 
manner  alone,  without  speech,  has  its  classic  exemplifica- 
tion in  Dante. 

One  day,  for  pastime,  we  read  of  Lancelot,  how  love  constrained 
him.  We  were  alone,  and  without  all  suspicion.  Several  times 
that  reading  urged  our  eyes  to  meet,  and  changed  the  colour  of  our 
faces.  But  one  moment  alone  it  was  that  overcame  us.  When  we 
read  how  the  fond  smile  was  kissed  by  such  a  lover,  he,  who  shall 
never  be  divided  from  me,  kissed  my  mouth  all  trembUng.  The 
book,  and  he  who  wrote  it,  was  a  Galeotto.  That  day  we  read  in 
it  no  farther.  —  Inferno,  v.  127-138,  John  Carlyle's  translation. 


II.  INTERPRETATION 

By  such  concrete  suggestions  persons  in  stories  are  charac- 
terized; that  is,  they  are  not  only  visualized,  but  interpreted. 
The  suggestive  images  that  we  get  of  them  are  made  to 
coincide,  gradually  to  confirm  an  idea.  Distinctness,  in- 
dividuality, harmony  of  impression,  are  secured  by  suppress- 
ing those  actions  and  gestures  in  which  we  are  all  much 
alike,  and  by  selecting  and  stressing  those  that  are  signifi- 
cant.   The  extreme  of  this  method  is  caricature,  as  in 


176  INTERPRETATION 

Dickens's  Uriah  Heep;  for  caricature  is  only  the  loading 
of  one  side  of  the  balance  between  what  is  common  and  what 
is  peculiar;  it  is  merely  exaggeration  of  a  method  funda- 
mentally necessary.  By  this  necessity  we  subordinate,  in 
describing  a  city  square,  those  aspects  in  which  all  city 
squares  are  much  alike,  in  order  to  bring  out  the  local  color, 
those  characteristic  aspects  in  which  San  Francisco  differs 
from  Pittsburgh,  or  New  Orleans  from  Chicago.  This 
obvious  method  of  imaginative  composition  is  fundamental 
in  art.  Art  is  at  once  what  Aristotle  calls  imitation  and  at 
the  same  time  interpretation.  Artistic  interpretation  is 
selection  for  significance. 

We  must  select.  To  record  all  the  sensations  of  a  given 
experience  is  impossible.  Even  if  by  some  extension  of 
photography  and  phonography  we  could  approach  complete- 
ness of  record,  the  result  would  not  be  what  we  seek  from 
art.  The  idea  that  art  imitates  life  in  the  sense  of  repro- 
ducing it  is  as  mistaken  as  it  is  narrow.  Art  does,  indeed, 
give  us  the  illusion  of  life;  in  that  sense  it  is  imitative;  but 
life  thus  seen  and  heard  is  clearer  and  more  vivid  than 
actuality.  Actuality  is  confusing;  art  is  illuminating.  Art 
is  a  simplification  of  life.  Its  representation  or  suggestion 
is  not  so  much  to  recall  to  us  what  we  have  seen  or  heard 
as  to  reveal  what  that  signifies  emotionally  and  thus  stimu- 
late us  to  see  and  hear  more.  What  art  imitates  is  not  the 
facts  of  life,  but  our  experience  of  them;  what  it  seeks  to 
convey  is  not  merely  illusion,  but  vision.  Beauty,  says 
Fromentin,^  springs  from  nature;  it  is  conqeived  and  re- 
vealed by  art.  "In  art  ^  there  is  hardly  any  other  reality, 
so  far  as  I  know,  than  this  truth  of  selection." 

Thus  selection  is  inevitable  for  both  writer  and  reader. 
For  the  writer,  selection  springs  from  singleness  of  intention. 

1  Eugene  Fromentin,  Une  annee  dans  le  Sahel,  page  214. 
*  Idem,  page  149. 


INTERPRETATION  111 

He  desires  us  to  see  what  he  sees  in  order  to  see  in  it  what 
he  sees  in  it.  His  insight,  his  interpretation,  is  not,  indeed, 
formulated  for  us  in  a  moral,  not  summed  up  in  the  ab- 
stract; he  leaves  us  to  do  that  for  ourselves;  but  it  none 
the  less  guides  his  selection.  In  the  first  place,  it  guides 
his  choice  of  subject.  He  chooses  an  anxious  crowd,  or  an 
old  whaler  at  the  wharf,  or  a  boy  selling  papers,  or  a  public 
funeral,  not  merely  because  he  has  seen  it,  but  because  it 
has  appealed  to  him,  because  he  has  felt  something  in  it. 
The  feeling,  in  turn,  is  communicated  to  us  by  controlling 
his  choice  of  details.  Another  writer,  feeling  differently, 
inevitably  chooses  other  details.  Both  writers  are  true  if 
they  are  sincere,  if  the  suggestions  of  each  are  faithful  to 
his  impressions.  Neither  can  be  true  in  the  sense  of  being 
exhaustive,  of  suggesting  all  aspects,  nor  in  the  sense  of 
merely  recording,  of  suggesting  no  aspect  at  all.  Truth  in 
art  is  truth  to  impression;  falsehood  consists  in  warping 
the  details  to  suggest  what  one  does  not  feel.  Whether 
honest  or  dishonest,  imaginative  composition  inevitably 
selects  in  order  to  interpret. 

And  this  is  what  we  wish  as  readers.  We  desire  of  stories, 
poems,  or  drama,  as  of  painting,  music,  architecture,  not 
imitation  in  the  sense  of  reproduction,  not  mere  repetition 
of  the  sounds  and  colors  and  forms  of  actual  life,  but  imita- 
tion in  the  sense  of  directed  experience.  We  wish  to  feel 
as  if  we  were  experiencing  life  more  deeply  by  penetrating 
to  what  it  means.  The  function  of  art  is  to  make  us  live 
more  intensely  by  living  in  imagination.  Art  stimulates 
by  focusing  attention.  So  painting  heightens  the  impres- 
sions of  the  eye,  and  music  those  of  the  ear.  In  both  the 
composer  selects  what  will  reveal.  So  the  suggestiveness 
of  imaginative  composition  in  words  is  not  mere  illusion, 
but  message;  and  the  illusion,  far  from  being  dispelled,  is 
heightened  by  the  composer's  way  of  detaching  his  story 


178  INTERPRETATION 

from  the  knot  of  stories  in  which  actuaHty  has  tangled  it, 
so  that  we  can  follow  it  without  interruption.  A  story 
differs  from  real  life  somewhat  as  a  single  telephone  message 
differs  from  a  Babel  of  crossed  wires.  We  read  it,  as  we 
look  at  a  picture,  in  order  to  feel  life  more  truly  by  feeling 
it  more  singly  and  intensely.  Interpretation  means  the 
direction  of  sensations  by  imagination  toward  truer  emotion. 
Practically,  interpretation  means  selecting  and  filling 
eloquent  moments,  taking  a  situation  at  its  crisis.  The 
realization  of  crises  is  fundamental  in  poetic.  In  smallest 
scope  and  greatest  intensity  we  feel  it  in  lyrics. 

MEETING  AT  NIGHT 

The  gray  sea  and  "the  long  black  land; 

And  the  yellow  half -moon  large  and  low; 
And  the  startled  Uttle  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep. 

As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  in  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach; 

Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears; 
A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 
And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 

And  a  voice  less  loud,  thro'  its  joys  and  fears. 
Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each!  ^ 

Even  the  popular  appeal  of  ballads  often  focuses  on  what 
in  more  conscious  art  is  called  a  situation.  Most  intense 
of  all  story-forms,  the  modern  "short  story''  frames  a  single 
crisis,  as  does  a  one-act  play.  A  play  of  several  acts  moves 
from  crisis  to  crisis  and  commonly  turns  midway  upon  a 
main  crisis,  the  turning-point.  That  the  values  of  a  novel 
are  extensive  rather  than  intensive  appears  in  that  crises 
^  Browning,  Dramatic  Lyrics. 


AVOIDANCE  OF  INTERRUPTION  179 

are  less  vital  to  its  composition.  Its  movement  may  be 
rather  a  steady  accumulation  of  experience,  as  in  the  novels 
of  Jane  Austen.  Nevertheless  a  novel  also  may  be  composed 
dramatically  by  crises;  and  even  when  it  is  not  thus  planned 
as  a  whole,  it  must  at  least  be  so  developed  in  some  parts, 
or  it  will  lack  salience.  Thus  the  writing  of  crises,  the  habit 
of  realizing  situations,  is  fundamental  in  imaginative  com- 
position. Besides  stimulating  observation  and  enhancing 
appreciation  of  literature,  it  opens  to  amateurs  a  certain 
degree  of  actual  achievement,  and  sometimes  indicates 
whether  that  achievement  can  extend  to  composition  more 
sustained.  In  any  case,  it  is  worth  while  for  itself  as  poetic 
experience.  For  it  teaches  that  unity  in  the  composition 
of  images,  as  in  the  composition  of  ideas,  limits  the  scope 
in  order  to  bring  out  fully,  that  significance  and  full  realiza- 
tion go  hand  in  hand. 

III.  MOVEMENT 

1.  Avoidance  of  Interruption 

As  in  composition  of  ideas,  coherence  of  the  whole  thus 
depends  on  unity,  on  the  distinctness  of  each  part;  but 
otherwise  a  succession  of  imaginative  suggestions  has  little 
resemblance  to  a  succession  of  ideas.  Rather  we  seek 
movement,  such  an  ordering  of  suggestions  as  lets  the  im- 
agination reach  ahead.  In  order  to  keep  the  illusion,  to 
make  a  story  seem  rather  an  experience  than  a  record,  the 
first  necessity  is  to  dispense  with  interruptive  explanations. 
Explanation  breaks  the  spell.  The  best  stories  are  so  ar- 
ranged as  to  include  all  necessary  information  among  the 
suggestions  that  conjure  up  in  our  minds  the  action  and  the 
actors,  so  that  we  seem  to  discover  it  as  we  go  along.  Move- 
ment is  thus  a  succession  of  significances  uninterrupted  by 
the  insignificances  and  irrelevancies  which  in  real  life  throw 


180  MOVEMENT 

us  out.  Life  is  incoherent;  art  is  coherent.  The  coherence 
of  imaginative  composition  in  words  consists  in  arranging 
an  uninterrupted  movement  of  significances. 

Having  repeatedly  heard  of  the  extreme  austerities  to  which  the 
Cenobite  monks  at  the  abbey  of  La  Trappe,  on  the  confines  of  Nor- 
mandy, submit  themselves,  I  felt  a  most  ardent  desire  to  pay 
them  a  visit,  and  therefore  set  out  for  that  purpose,  and  have  been 
highly  recompensed  for  my  trouble. 

As  I  approached  the  abbey,  everything  served  to  inspire  me  with 
rehgious  terror.  The  hills,  woods,  lakes,  and  rivulets  which  sur- 
rounded the  valley  seemed  placed  on  purpose  to  sequester  those 
sohtary  monks  from  all  commerce  with  the  rest  of  mankind.  The 
very  silence  seemed  awful,  a  silence  which  has  reigned  uninter- 
rupted for  several  centuries.  The  old  Gothic  buildings  appeared 
more  gloomy  and  solemn  than  I  can  express  by  words.  The  hollow 
sound  caused  by  my  horse's  feet  as  I  entered  the  gate  of  the 
convent  made  it  appear  a  ruin  long  deserted  by  men. 

I  saw  no  person  in  the  yard  of  the  convent;  and  all  appeared  a 
silent,  dreary  ruin.  On  observing  a  cord  hanging  by  an  old  Gothic 
door,  I  supposed  it  to  be  that  of  the  bell,  and  therefore  began  to 
pull  it  pretty  hard,  and  at  length  made  the  bell  to  toll,  the  flat  and 
solemn  sound  of  which,  echoed  through  the  long,  damp  cloisters, 
equalled  the  universal  sadness  of  the  place.  After  I  had  waited  for 
some  time,  I  perceived  the  door  to  open,  and  observed  a  tall,  pale, 
meager  figure  approach,  hideous  as  a  specter.  His  head  was  en- 
tirely shaved,  except  a  narrow  circle  of  hair  left  like  a  band  all 
round.  He  wore  a  robe  such  as  the  monks  commonly  wear,  of  very 
coarse,  white  cloth,  which  reached  down  to  the  great  wooden  shoes 
he  had  upon  his  feet.  With  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  earth,  and  his 
hands  joined  together  before  his  breast,  he  advanced  slowly  towards 
me  and,  bowing  down  his  head  to  the  earth,  put  his  hps  to  my 
shoes. — James  St.  John,  Letters  from  France  to  a  Gentleman  in  the 
South  of  Ireland  (Dubhn,  1788),  Letter  xl  (Paris,  August  20). 

The  slowness  and  vagueness  of  this  description  are  due 
primarily  to  its  abstract,  general  introduction.     Religious 


AVOIDANCE  OF  INTERRUPTION  181 

terror  is  no  more  vivid  than  it  is  precise.  HillSf  woods,  lakes, 
and  rivulets  are  enumerated  without  evincing  or  arousing 
the  sUghtest  attention.  They  would  serve  equally  ill  for 
China,  Germany,  or  Indiana.  Since  definite  suggestion 
begins  with  hollow  sound,  the  preceding  sentences  should  be 
reduced  by  about  three  fourths.  The  vital  fourth,  then 
expressed  concretely,  would  be,  not  just  as  good,  but  vastly 
better.  The  first  lesson  of  movement  is  to  begin  promptly. 
But  the  concrete  details  —  hollow  sound  caused  by  my  horse^s 
feet  —  toll  .  .  .  flat  and  solemn  sound  —  tall,  pale,  meager  — 
shaved  except  a  narrow  circle  —  coarse  white  cloth,  etc.  — 
which  convey  practically  all  the  imaginative  suggestion, 
are  not  merely  given  late;  they  are  also  given  very  slowly, 
interrupted  by  many  words  merely  explanatory  and  some- 
times quite  unnecessary.  Thus  the  feebleness  of  this  passage 
is  due  to  its  clogged  and  clumsy  movement.  Conversely 
the  last  sentence,  which  is  obviously  the  most  suggestive, 
has  the  least  interruption.  It  is  not  merely  the  most  dis- 
tinct in  imagery,  but  also  the  least  cumbered.  The  rest  of 
the  passage,  even  after  the  vague  introduction,  is  full  of 
expressions  superfluous  even  as  explanation  and  quite  mean- 
ingless as  description :  /  entered  —  made  it  appear  —  by  men 
—  I  saw  —  all  appeared  —  On  observation  .  .  .  made  the  — 
I  had  waited  —  I  perceived  —  he  had  upon  his  feet.  This 
tiresome  diffuseness,  which  comes  from  relying  on  sentiment 
and  information  instead  of  suggestion,  consists  in  delayed 
movement.  All  that  is  expressed  here,  all  that  touches  the 
imagination,  can  be  said  in  half  the  time;  and,  so  said,  it 
would  be  enhanced.  Revision  for  movement  means  freeing 
the  start  from  unnecessary  ceremony  and  the  course  from 
delayed  predicates. 


182  MOVEMENT 

2,  Descriptive  Predicates 

Practical  grasp  of  movement  begins  with  predicates.  The 
more  the  predicate  contributes  to  the  descriptive  effect,  the 
likeHer  the  description  is  to  be  Hvely  in  both  imagery  and 
movement.  Probably  the  most  directly  suggestive  sentences 
are  those  with  strong  single  predicates.  In  this  means  of 
force  descriptions  otherwise  quite  different  are  commonly 
found  to  be  alike. 

And  when  Jacob  had  made  an  end  of  commanding  his  sons,  he 
gathered  up  his  feet  into  the  bed  and  yielded  up  the  ghost. 

—  Genesis,  xlix.  33. 

As  an  eagle  stirreth  up  her  nest,  fluttereth  over  her  young, 
spreadeth  abroad  her  wings,  taketh  them,  beareth  them  on  her 
wings.  —  Deuteronomy,  xxxii.  11. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew. 
The  furrow  followed  free. 

—  Coleridge,  The  Ancient  Manner,  xxv. 

Thus  the  predicate,  instead  of  clogging  the  description, 
should  at  least  assist  it.  Descriptive  predicates  also,  by 
accomplishing  what  must  else  be  sought  through  accumula- 
tion of  noims  and  adjectives,  relieve  the  sentence  movement. 
These  advantages  may  be  summed  up  in  the  word  directness. 
We  should  try  to  make  our  expression  answer  our  impression, 
and  in  turn  impress  a  reader,  as  directly  as  possible.  Other- 
wise the  impression  may  be  dulled  by  the  very  length  of 
transmission.  Imaginative  composition  in  words  accom- 
plishes very  little  by  mere  accumulation. 

I  may  tell  you  his  eyes  are  pale  blue,  his  features  regular,  his 
hair  silky,  brownish,  his  legs  long,  his  head  rather  stooping  (only 
the  head),  his  mouth  commonly  closed;  these  are  the  facts,  and  you 
have  seen  much  the  same  in  a  nursery  doll.    Such  literary  craft  is 


DESCRIPTIVE  PREDICATES  183 

of  the  nursery.  So  with  landscapes.  The  art  of  the  pen  (we  write 
on  darkness)  is  to  rouse  the  inward  vision,  instead  of  labouring 
with  a  drop-scene  brush,  as  if  it  were  to  the  eye;  because  our  flying 
minds  cannot  contain  a  protracted  description.  That  is  why  the 
poets,  who  spring  imagination  with  a  word  or  a  phrase,  paint  last- 
ing pictures.  The  Shakespearian,  the  Dantesque,  are  in  a  Une, 
two  at  most. 

—  George  Meredith,  Diana  of  the  Crossways,  Chapter  xv. 

One  of  the  grossest  hterary  errors  of  our  time  has  been  to  con- 
fuse the  enumeration  of  parts  with  "painting,"  to  beheve  that  the 
interminable  juxtaposition  of  details,  even  picturesque  details,  can 
in  the  end  achieve  a  single  image,  make  us  sensible  of  the  vast 
spectacles  of  the  physical  universe.  —  Jules  LemaItre,  Impres- 
sions de  thedtre,  8^«  s4rie  (the  review  of  a  dramatization  of  Zola's 
Une  Page  d' amour). 

The  psychology  of  description  is  pursued  by  Lemaltre 
further  in  a  later  study. 

We  are  passing  a  tree  where  a  bird  is  singing.  .  .  .  "The 
bird  utters  from  the  foliage  his  joyous  song."  That  sentence  is  not 
vivid.  Why?  Because  it  expresses  not  the  first  moment  of  the 
perception,  but  the  last.  First  the  perception  is  analyzed,  sight 
separated  and  distinguished  from  hearing,  the  fohage  put  here  and 
the  song  there,  though  in  reaUty  both  were  perceived  at  once.  But 
that  is  not  all.  After  having  analyzed  his  personal  perception,  the 
writer  tries  to  express  mainly  the  feeling  of  pleasure  that  it  pro- 
duces. So  he  writes  "  joyous  song."  That  is  why  the  sentence  is 
not  vivid.  It  is  not  description,  but  analysis;  and  it  conveys,  not 
the  objects  directly,  but  the  feelings  that  they  arouse  in  us.  .  .  . 
Now  the  vivid  style,  at  its  height  and  in  most  cases,  seems  to  me  to 
consist  essentially  in  seizing  and  fixing  the  sensation  at  the  moment 
when  it  arises,  before  it  is  analyzed  into  a  sentiment. 
—  J.  LemaItre,  Les  contemporains,  1^^  s^rie,  page  168;  quoted 
by  A.  Albalat,  La  formation  du  style,  page  171. 

In  the  case  of  the  bird  in  the  tree  Lemaitre  bids  us  say, 
with  the  strongest  modern  writers,   ''The  foliage  sings." 


184  MOVEMENT 

This  particular  expression  may  give  us  pause  as  being  violent, 
as  forgetting  that  language  is  used  not  only  for  imagination, 
but  also  for  information.  But  Lemaltre  for  the  moment  is 
waiving  the  latter  use;  nor  is  he  insisting  on  a  certain  form 
of  words.  His  point  is  that  for  vividness  descriptive  ex- 
pression should  be  pared  down  to  the  quick,  freed  as  far  as 
possible  from  indirectness.  How  far  this  habit  should  be 
carried  in  a  given  case  must  depend  partly  on  usage,  partly 
on  individual  taste;  but  the  principle  is  fimdamen tally 
sound. 

Besides  being  generally  suggestive,  this  idea  of  direct  ex- 
pression is  particularly  applicable  to  the  revision  of  sentence- 
form.  Since  the  aim  of  descriptive  sentences  is  a  succession 
of  images,  they  can  hardly  be  revised,  as  the  sentences  of 
discussion  are,  according  to  the  relations  of  ideas  (page  58). 
They  follow,  not  a  sequence  of  thought,  but  a  series  of  sen- 
sations. The  principle  of  logical  subordination,  therefore, 
does  not  apply. 

The  valley  swam  under  him.  He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  second; 
but  his  hand  still  gripped  the  projecting  edge.  A  thin  voice  called 
far  above.  A  rope  brushed  his  face.  It  swung  out  and  back. 
With  a  sickening  effort  he  freed  one  hand,  clutched  it,  clutched  it 
again  with  the  other,  swung  loose  in  the  void.  His  legs  writhed 
about  it  of  their  own  accord.  It  held.  His  whole  body  trusted  it 
and  sank  on  it.    He  was  saved. 

Suppose  these  statements  subordinated  as  ideas:  — 

As  the  valley  seemed  to  swim  under  him,  though  his  eyes  closed 
for  a  second,  his  hands  still  gripped,  etc. 

This  is  smoother,  indeed;  but  it  is  flat,  even  absurd.  For 
the  object  is  to  express,  not  ideas  in  logical  relations,  but 
the  sensations  themselves  as  they  came.  Thus  the  follow- 
ing simple  coordination  is  truer  to  the  impression  than 
subordination  could  be. 


DESCRIPTIVE  PREDICATES  185 

I  took  the  glass;  and  the  shores  leaped  nearer,  and  I  saw  the 
tangle  of  the  woods  and  the  breach  of  the  surf;  and  the  brown  roofs 
and  the  black  insides  of  houses  peeped  among  the  trees. 

—  Stevenson,  The  Beach  of  Falesd,  Chapter  i. 

The  movement  from  clause  to  clause,  sentence  to  sentence, 
should  seek  to  make  the  reader  follow,  not  logically,  but 
imaginatively.  To  this  end,  the  primary  means  is  direct 
predication.  "  The  foliage  sings  "  as  a  descriptive  principle 
is  applicable  only  in  general  and  with  modifications.  It 
expresses  an  ideal.  But  as  a  formula  for  descriptive  sen- 
tences it  is  thoroughly  practical. 

As  I  looked  out  of  my  window  at  the  driving  snowstorm,  I  saw 
a  hat  whirling  down  the  street. 

This  is  obviously  clogged  (page  181)  by  superfluous  ex- 
planation. As  I  looked  out  of  the  window  and  /  saw  add 
nothing  to  either  the  image  or  the  sense.  But,  as  in  many 
such  cases,  the  redundancy  arises  from  the  indirectness  of 
the  whole  sentence-form.  Revision  should  see  first  of  all 
whether  the  main  sensation  cannot  better  be  thrown  into 
the  predicate  than  left  hovering  among  nouns  and  adjectives. 
To  say  The  driving  snow  whirled  a  hat  down  the  street,  or  A 
hat  whirled  with  the  snow  down  the  street,  is  truer  to  the  im- 
pression, since  it  follows  the  sensations.  And  often  we  may 
be  content  with  either  drove  or  whirled,  using  whichever 
better  expresses  the  single  action. 

Several  crows  are  walking  about  a  newly  sowed  wheat  field,  and 
we  'pause  to  note  their  graceful  movements  and  glossy  coats.  I  have 
seen  no  bird  walk  the  ground  with  just  the  same  air  the  crow  does.  It 
is  not  exactly  pride;  there  is  no  strut  or  swagger  in  it,  though,  per- 
haps, just  a  little  condescension;  it  is  the  contented,  complaisant, 
and  self-possessed  gait  of  a  lord  over  hie  domains.  .  .  .  The 
hawk  looks  awkward  and  out  of  place  on  the  ground;  the  game 
birds  hurry  and  skulk;  but  the  crow  is  at  home.^ 

^  John  Burroughs,  An  Idyll  of  the  Honey-Bee. 


186  MOVEMENT 

Compare  the  swift  suggestion  of  hurry  and  skulk  with  the 
cumbrous  slowness  of  the  two  opening  sentences. 

She  passed  down  the  aisle  with  a  swaying  movement  as  if  dizzy. 

Here  the  single  image  intended  is  expressed  by  passed, 
swaying,  movement,  and  dizzy,  four  words.  Of  these,  passed 
and  movement,  since  they  add  nothing  to  the  image,  are 
superfluous.  The  best  way  to  do  without  them  is  to  con- 
vey the  impression  directly  by  the  predicate,  to  say,  instead 
of  she  passed  with  a  swaying  movement,  simply  she  swayed. 
The  direct  predication  She  swayed  dizzily  down  the  aisle  is 
more  sharply  descriptive;  and  in  many  such  cases  the  ad- 
verb adds  little  to  the  right  verb;  dizzily  may  be  suflSciently 
suggested  by  swayed.    So  such  a  sentence  as 

With  a  clatter  a  milk  wagon  hastened  noisily  down  the  street. 

is  typically  straightened  to 

A  milk  wagon  clattered  down  the  street. 

Such  revisions  are  neither  for  correctness  nor  for  logical 
conciseness.  The  indirect  form  is  quite  correct;  and  con- 
ciseness is  not  necessarily  a  merit  in  description.  The 
particular  revisions  above  do  not  insist  on  particular  words. 
Other  words  might  be  as  good,  or  better.  The  point  is 
simply  to  free  the  movement.  The  primary  essential  of 
free  movement  is  direct  predication. 

3.   Rhythm 

Direct  predication  being  assured,  the  whole  passage 
should  be  read  aloud  to  see  whether  the  course  of  the  sen- 
tences keeps  pace  with  the  action.  If  the  action  was  rapid, 
the  sentences  should  be  short;  i.e.,  it  is  better  to  go  on 
predicating  than  to  subordinate  by  modif3dng  phrases  or 
clauses.  If  the  action  was  also  hurried  or  confused,  the 
sentences  may  be  left  disconnected;  if  it  was  measured,  they 


RHYTHM  187 

may  be  connected  and  even  balanced;  if  it  was  slow  and 
lingering,  disconnectedness  disturbs  by  breaking  the  pace. 
In  a  word,  revision  of  description  is  partly  revision  for  sound. 
We  feel  this  most  distinctly  in  verse.  The  effect  of  light- 
ness, gaiety,  and  rapidity  in  Browning's  Pied  Piper,  of 
measured  and  solemn  slowness  in  Gray's  Elegy,  or  of  a  march- 
ing, singing  throng  in  Tennyson's  ''Clang  battle-axe,  and 
clash  brand!  Let  the  King  reign!"  is  produced  not  only 
by.  the  choice  of  single  words  appropriate  to  the  emotion, 
but  also  by  appropriate  verse  movement.  The  descriptive 
suggestiveness  of  sentence  movement  in  prose  may  be  felt 
by  comparing  in  this  aspect  the  following  passages.  The 
first  carries  tranquilly  with  measured  cadence  to  a  strik- 
ing close.  The  abruptness  of  the  second  enhances  the  im- 
pression of  agitation.  The  third,  on  the  contrary,  dulls  and 
beUes  the  agitation  of  the  scene  by  its  balanced  oratorical 
cadences. 

From  Nantes  he  descended  imperceptibly  along  tall  hedge-rows 
of  acacia,  till  on  a  sudden,  with  a  novel  freshness  in  the  air,  through 
a  low  archway  of  laden  fruit-trees  it  was  visible  —  sand,  sea,  and 
sky,  in  three  quiet  spaces,  line  upon  line. 

—  Pater,  Gaston  de  Latour,  page  102. 

"I  have  been  ill,  Mackellar,"  he  said  again.  "Something  broke, 
Mackellar  —  or  was  going  to  break,  and  then  all  swam  away.  I 
think  I  was  very  angry.  Never  you  mind,  Mackellar;  never  you 
mind,  my  man.  J  wouldna  hurt  a  hair  upon  your  head.  Too 
much  has  come  and  gone."  — Stevenson,  The  Master  of  Ballan- 
trae,  page  183  (Edinburgh  Edition). 

At  the  moment  that  their  attendants  were  placing  two  wreaths 
of  their  favourite  jasmines  on  their  brows,  the  Caliph,  who  had 
just  heard  the  tragical  catastrophe,  arrived.  He  looked  not  less 
pale  and  haggard  than  the  Goules  that  wander  at  night  among 
graves.    Forgetful  of  himself  and  every  one  else,  he  broke  through 


188  MOVEMENT 

the  midst  of  the  slaves,  fell  prostrate  at  the  foot  of  the  sofa,  beat 
his  bosom,  called  himself  "atrocious  murderer!"  and  invoked  upon 
his  head  a  thousand  imprecations.  —  Beckford,  Vathek. 

Furthermore,  adaption  of  movement  to  mood  or  emotion 
is  sufficient  assurance  of  what  we  all  demand  of  sentence 
movement  —  variety. 

Direct  predication  and  that  larger  revision  which  seeks 
to  make  the  course  of  the  sentences  keep  pace  with  the 
action  or  suggest  the  emotion  have  the  further  advantage  of 
moving  in  sure  channels.  They  tend  away  from  misguided 
and  labored  competition  with  painting  by  following  the 
natural  movement,  which  is  narrative.  Narrative  movement 
best  conveys  those  sensations  on  which  description  must 
always  rely  mainly,  the  sensations  of  sound  and  motion. 
Light,  color,  odor,  touch,  may  all  be  suggested,  and,  less 
specifically,  shape,  mass,  and  outline.  But  suggestions  in 
these  fields  cannot  long  be  accumulated  without  fatigue  and 
confusion.  Most  often  they  must  be  suggested  rapidly;  and 
the  main  reliance  of  description,  that  which  carries  it  along 
most  readily,  is  suggestion  of  sound  and  motion.  Lessing^ 
reminded  us  long  ago  that  Homer  describes  a  ship,  not  by 
trying  to  paint  its  picture,  but  by  narrating  how  men  launched 
it  or  beached  it;  and  in  the  contemporary  art  of  the  news- 
paper every  description  is  a  "story.'*  Between  these  ex- 
tremes and  in  every  variety  of  detail,  description  moves 
most  successfully  by  narrative. 

4.  Interaction 

So  even  brief  descriptions,  without  attempt  at  story  in 
the  large  sense,  are  made  lively  and  easy  by  narrative 
interaction  and  even  by  dialogue.  A  crowd  is  described, 
not  by  enumerating  its  persons  or  classes,  but  by  telling 

*  Leasing,  Laokoon,  translation  b^  E.  Frothingham,  Boston,  1874. 


INTERACTION  189 

what  they  did  and  said  to  one  another:  how  a  tall  woman, 
smiling,  lifted  to  her  shoulder  a  child  smothered  below;  what 
the  street  boy  replied  to  the  old  gentleman  after  squeezing 
past  him;  what  gestures  and  words  marked  the  easing  of  the 
press  as  the  cashier  found  himself  beside  the  lineman.  Thus 
the  necessary  information  is  woven  in.  The  transitions,  be- 
ing themselves  concrete,  do  not  break  the  illusion,  and  do  not 
interrupt  the  movement.  The  following  student  themes, 
though  the  object  in  each  case  is  purely  descriptive,  i.e., 
simply  to  realize  the  scene,  are  all  made  freer  and  more 
direct  than  those  quoted  above  on  pages  180  and  181  by  nar- 
rative movement. 

"All  those  who  wish  may  leave  before  the  after-meeting  starts." 
The  speaker's  voice  came  softly  from  the  distant  platform.  There 
was  a  deathly  silence.  Then  came  a  slight  rustle  as  heads  were 
craned  to  see  if  any  one  dared  leave.  I  swept  my  eyes  over  and 
then  up  around  the  long  line  of  galleries.  They  were  packed.  All 
the  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  platform.  The  central  figure  was 
motionless.  He  leaned  slightly  forward  and  held  up  his  hand. 
"Hush!  Now  think."  The  quiet  voice  tuned  up  the  suppressed 
emotion.  A  woman  near  me  hastily  drew  her  handkerchief.  Her 
half-stifled  sob  made  the  white  faces  next  her  twitch.  A  lump 
rose  in  my  throat.  I  fought  it  down.  Again  I  suffered  myself  to 
look  at  the  people  in  front  of  me.  The  contorted  features  of  a 
man's  half-turned  face  burned  into  my  mind.  I  shut  out  the  sight. 
Still  something  in  me  stretched  out  to  those  in  the  whole  of  the  vast 
auditorium.  Their  presence  vibrated  within  me.  It  oppressed,  it 
stifled  me.  Some  one  sobbed  aloud.  It  broke  the  stillness.  It 
started  me.    Blindly  I  plunged  for  the  door. 

This  is  not  strong  in  phrase.  Its  force  is  due  almost 
entirely  to  its  directness,  as  may  be  seen  better  by  recasting 
the  first  part  in  the  conventional  manner. 

It  was  a  crowded  meeting  at  the  close  of  a  "revival."  Even  the 
galleries  of  the  great  auditorium  were  full.    Though  the  building 


190  MOVEMENT 

was  so  large  that  the  platform  seemed  remote,  the  silence  was  such 
that  the  leader's  voice  was  clearly  audible.  At  the  end  of  the  regu- 
lar meeting  he  gave  opportunity  for  any  who  so  wished  to  leave 
before  the  opening  of  the  after-meeting;  but  no  one  stirred.  The 
audience  seemed  to  be  hypnotized.  .  .  . 

The  weaving  of  the  information  and  the  setting  into  the 
action  makes  easier  reading;  but  the  method  may  be  still 
better  characterized  by  saying  that  it  follows  the  sensations. 
Similarly,  though  in  quite  various  scenes,  these  others  follow 
the  counsel  of  Lemaitre. 

Sweethearts  smiled  with  their  eyes  and  tried  to  beUe  the  droop- 
ing corners  of  their  mouths.  Mothers  wept  openly  and  dried  wind- 
roughened  cheeks  with  aprons  embroidered  like  cloth  of  gold. 
Hale  old  fathers  strutted  back  and  forth  on  the  platform  in  fus- 
tanellas  like  white  kilts,  so  bizarre  that  they  seemed  to  exhibit  the 
tell-tale  basting  of  a  costumer.  They  blew  cigarette  smoke  noisily 
through  their  bushy  beards,  or  took  snuff  in  an  aggressive  fashion. 
The  tight-trousered  youths  were  off  for  America.  One  was  bend- 
ing over  a  sobbing  httle  boy  who  pressed  his  puffy  red  face  against 
his  big  brother's  leg.  Comforting  seemed  all  he  needed;  for,  a 
second  after  the  Argonaut  had  dropped  a  broad  penny  into  the 
tiny  palm,  the  transformed  child  was  clattering  up  the  blazing 
road  toward  Megalopohs.  Not  even  a  good-bye.  He  was  no 
sooner  over  the  hill  and  under  the  dusty  plane  tree  than  some  one 
cried,  "It's  coming."  The  youths  in  the  German  clothes  hurled 
their  oil-cloth  cases  into  the  high-stepped  cars;  the  sweethearts 
wept;  the  mothers  sobbed,  and  the  fathers  smoked  furiously.  The 
train  jerked  spasmodically  into  motion,  and  the  sweethearts  ran 
beside  it  for  a  few  rods.  It  disappeared  around  a  great  hmestone 
cliff,  ahve  with  red  new  handkerchiefs.  Just  too  late  to  see  the 
last  coach,  Mttle  brother  Demetrios  panted  up.  He  had  cast  aside 
his  clicking  shoes.  In  one  grimy  palm  was  a  piece  of  sugary 
loukoumi.    It  was  to  have  been  a  farewell  tribute. 


INTERACTION  191 

While  we  waited  for  the  train  I  tried  to  discover  some  way  of 
preventing  the  rain  from  getting  inside  my  coat-collar  and  down 
under  the  lap-robe  to  the  seat.  The  horses,  hardly  visible  through 
the  inky  blackness,  even  with  the  muddy  lantern  under  the  open 
buckboard,  alternately  pawed  the  ground  and  shivered.  My 
hands,  long  since  stripped  of  gloves,  were  becoming  cold  and  clam- 
my. The  stiffening  wet  rains  cut  into  the  skin;  and  all  the  while 
the  night  dripped.  "Better  walk  the  horses  around."  We  oozed 
and  bumped  along  past  the  row  of  country  stores,  the  mud  drop- 
ping in  cakes  from  the  rising  spoke  ends.  A  gust  of  wind  hurled  a 
bucket  of  water  at  my  face  and  slapped  the  lantern  out.  Then  I 
heard  the  train  whistle.  I  felt  that  I  was  in  the  road,  though  it  was 
invisible,  when  we  struck  the  inchne  leading  down  to  the  sta- 
tion. The  reins  shpped  out  through  my  hands.  As  the  wheels 
grazed  the  platform,  the  locomotive  headhght  appeared  through 
the  mist. 

Into  the  delivery  room  of  the  big  store,  where  flippant  youths 
and  Hstless  girls  trot  incessantly  from  dusty  chute  to  dusty  pigeon- 
hole, and  drooping  clerks  keep  an  eye  on  the  clock  in  that  longest 
hour  between  five  and  six,  came  a  burst  of  sunshine  —  that  is,  the 
baby.  She  was  in  the  arms  of  her  smiUng  young  mother,  who  eas- 
ily threaded  her  way  through  the  maze  of  hampers.  "Well,  if  it 
isn't  Mame ! "  "  You're  looking  fine.  How  old  is  the  baby,  Mame?  " 
"Four  teeth,  you  said?  Bless  'er  little  heart!"  "Look  at  the 
dimple,  would  you?"  "Say,  Kate,  she's  smihn'  at  you."  "What 
makes  her  cheeks  so  red?  and  will  her  hair  always  be  curly?" 
"Let  me  hold  her;  you've  had  her  long  enough."  Mrs.  Mame 
beamed  upon  her  rosy  darhng,  most  precious  of  packages,  being 
handed  about  from  one  to  the  other,  and  visibly  curled  up  her  nose 
at  the  famihar  room.  "Just  the  same  as  ever,  you  see,  Mame.  Is 
it  only  two  years  since  you  left?"  "Less  than  that  to  me,"  smiled 
the  visitor.  "Have  you  all  hugged  baby  now?  Come,  Pet;  we 
must  get  home  to  Papa."  The  dimpled,  gurghng  mite  was  returned 
in  safety,  clutching  the  mammoth  dahlia  from  Kate's  tumbler. 
"So  long!  Do  come  again,"  chanted  the  black-robed  chorus  as 
their  idol  was  borne  away  waving  "bye-bye  to  the  ladies"  with  the 


192  MOVEMENT 

nodding  red  dahlia.  Even  that  spot  of  sunshine  vanished.  The 
tumbler  was  empty  and  the  desk  quite  plainly  dusty.  The  ham- 
pers resumed  their  creaking,  the  pens  their  scratching.  "Ain't  she 
the  lucky  one?"  sighed  Kate. 

Even  landscape,  which  cannot  often  be  suggested  ex- 
tensively by  words,  need  not  be  catalogued.  The  following 
of  sensations  and  the  throwing  of  some  description  into  the 
predicates  give  directness  even  when  there  is  no  stir  of  action. 

The  sun  was  sinking  below  the  hne  of  locust  trees  along  the 
road;  and  its  rays  shot  through  the  openings  of  the  leaves  to  red- 
den the  branches  of  the  old  maple.  The  sky  was  blue,  with  a  few 
white  islands  stationed  upon  its  expanse;  and  the  edge  of  the  hill 
looked  like  the  edge  of  the  world.  There  was  no  wind;  and  the  fall- 
ing leaves  dipped  leisurely  back  and  forth  as  they  floated  to  the 
brown  sward  below.  A  vesper  sparrow  perched  on  the  barbed-wire 
fence  that  divided  the  earth  from  the  universe  and  trilled  a  song 
service  to  the  departing  day. 

These  themes  have  no  exceptional  merit.  In  fact,  they 
are  chosen  deliberately  instead  of  professional  work  be- 
cause they  show  what  most  college  amateurs  can  achieve 
in  imaginative  realization  when  they  work  in  right  direc- 
tions. How  much  farther  these  principles  apply  in  the 
larger  movement  of  sustained  narrative  will  appear  in  the 
following  chapter.  Meantime  it  is  clear  that  the  funda- 
mentals of  imaginative  composition  in  words  are,  in  the  order 
of  experience:  first  and  above  all,  to  realize  sensations; 
secondly,  to  direct  them  by  and  to  a  dominant  impression; 
thirdly,  by  imitating  the  movement  of  life  to  make  the 
reader  follow  them:  first,  to  observe;  second,  to  choose  and 
make  eloquent  single  moments;  third,  to  follow:  first,  im- 
agination;   second,  interpretation;    third,  movement. 


CHAPTER  V 

NARRATIVE    MOVEMENT 

Sustained  imaginative  composition  in  words  has  two 
main  directions,  story  and  drama.  Both  go  back  to  the 
beginnings  of  civiHzation;  and  story-telling  especially, 
while  it  has  developed  various  forms  among  various  peoples 
and  in  successive  centuries,  has  accumulated  a  large  common 
fund  of  experience.  Thus  the  history  of  story-telling  is 
worth  much  for  practical  guidance. 

I.  TYPICAL  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

Throughout  the  earher  centuries  of  any  civilization  story- 
telling has  been  oral.  When  we  find  an  old  story  meager, 
we  must  remember  that  the  written  form  in  which  it  is 
preserved  may  be  merely  a  summary  or  skeleton.  The 
abundance  of  concrete  suggestion  on  which  modern  times 
rely  for  imaginative  reaUzation  (pages  164-175)  was  anciently 
supplied  by  dramatic  recital,  by  the  voice,  the  gesture,  and 
even  the  amplification  of  the  narrator,  and  sometimes  by 
dramatic  dance  or  refrain  of  the  audience.  Much  of  this 
survives  even  to-day  in  oral  story-telling  to  children.  How 
much  of  it  was  eventually  carried  over  into  manuscript  de- 
pended partly  on  the  writer's  Uterary  bent,  partly  on  the 
literary  occasion  or  the  literary  habit  of  the  time.  Some- 
times the  suggestions  are  mere  hints.  Sometimes,  as  in 
the  Norse  sagas  or  in  the  Book  of  Esther,  though  few,  they 
are  vivid. 

193 


194  TYPICAL  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

Eyjolf  saw  that  the  attack  was  beginning  to  flag,  and  grew 
afraid  that  the  countryside  might  be  raised  upon  them;  so  they 
brought  up  the  fire.  John  of  Bakki  had  a  tar-pin  with  him.  They 
took  the  sheepskins  from  the  frames  that  stood  outside  there,  and 
tarred  them  and  set  them  on  fire.  Some  took  hay  and  stuffed  it 
into  the  windows  and  put  fire  to  it;  and  soon  there  was  a  great 
smoke  in  the  house  and  a  choking  heat.  Gizur  lay  down  in  the  hall 
by  one  of  the  pillars  and  kept  his  nose  on  the  floor.  Groa  his  wife 
was  near  him.  Thorbjorn  Neb  was  lying  there  too,  and  he  and 
Gizur  had  their  heads  close  together.  Thorbjorn  could  hear  Gizur 
praying  to  God  in  many  ways  and  fervently,  and  thought  he  had 
never  before  heard  praying  like  it.  As  for  himself,  he  could  not 
have  opened  his  mouth  for  the  smoke.  —  Sturlungasaga,  as  trans- 
lated by  W.  P.  Ker  in  Epic  and  Romance,  page  298. 

•  The  king  made  a  feast  ...  in  the  court  of  the  garden  of  the 
king's  palace,  where  were  white,  green,  and  blue  hangings  fas- 
tened with  cords  of  fine  hnen  and  purple  to  silver  rings  and  pillars 
of  marble.  The  beds  were  of  gold  and  silver  upon  a  pavement  of 
red  and  blue  and  white  and  black  marble.  And  they  gave  them 
drink  in  vessels  of  gold.  —  Esther,  i.  5-7. 

When  Mordecai  perceived  all  that  was  done,  Mordecai  rent  his 
clothes,  and  put  on  sackcloth  with  ashes,  and  went  out  into  the 
midst  of  the  city,  and  cried  with  a  loud  and  bitter  cry.  — Ibid.  iv.  1. 

As  the  word  went  out  of  the  king's  mouth,  they  covered  Ra- 
man's face.  — Ibid.  vii.  8. 

Sometimes,  as  in  the  great  narratives  of  Homer,  they  are 
so  abundant  as  to  be  a  model  for  all  times  to  come. 

1.  Tale 

A  tale  is  a  narrative  sunmiary.  Often  imaginative  in  the 
sense  of  being  avowedly  fictitious,  it  is  rarely  imaginative  in 
the  sense  of  suggesting  by  concrete  detail.  Whatever  may 
have  been  supplied  in  its  oral  rendering,  in  its  written  form 
it  characteristically  omits  detail,  relying  for  its  effect  on 


TALE  193 

conciseness.  Thus  its  movement  is  simple  chronological 
succession  without  salient  stages  of  action;  and  its  chief 
merit  is  straightforward  lucidity.  Narrative  conciseness 
and  lucidity  are  worth  learning,  as  is  witnessed  by  the  uni- 
versal prescription  of  tales  as  elementary  exercises  in  the 
classical  rhetoric;  but  they  are  virtues  rather  of  rhetoric 
than  of  poetic;  they  do  not  much  exercise  imagination. 
The  difference  may  be  seen  by  comparing  the  traditional 
summary  form  of  an  ancient  beast-fable  with  the  develop- 
ment given  to  the  same  fable  by  Joel  Chandler  Harris  in  his 
Nights  with  Uncle  Remus.  Harris's  rendering  of  these  typical 
ancient  tales  imitates  the  old  oral  rendering  by  abundantly 
suggesting  soimd,  motion,  action,  speech,  and  even  character; 
but  in  so  doing,  as  well  as  by  composing  for  salience,  he 
carries  them  beyond  the  limits  of  what  we  generally  under- 
stand by  a  tale.  Dialogue  in  a  tale  is  used,  not  for  the  full 
dramatic  suggestion  seen  in  Uncle  RemuSj  but  barely  and 
for  narrative  conciseness.  Within  these  limits  the  art  of 
the  tale  is  carried  to  its  height  by  La  Fontaine;  and  even 
he  stretches  the  limits  by  enhancing  the  dialogue  artistically 
with  marvelously  concise  suggestions  of  gesture  and  manner. 
Typically  a  tale  has  no  such  development.  It  is  a  story  in 
the  germ,  undeveloped,  leaving  all  imagination  to  the  reader. 
This  perennial  form  of  narrative,  through  many  changes 
of  literary  fashion,  now  in  verse,  now  in  prose,  shows  two 
main  kinds,  the  one  visionary,  the  other  practical:  tales  of 
hope  or  fear  and  tales  of  shrewdness  or  devotion,  tales  of 
wonder  and  anecdotes  or  fables,  fairy  tales  and  moral  tales. 
Fairy  talcs  come  to  us  from  folk-lore.  They  are  tales  of 
dreams  aroused  in  man  by  nature.  Whether  of  hope  or  of 
fear,  they  tell  of  what  must  lie  beyond  this  visible  world, 
of  mates  fair  beyond  womankind,  of  xmearthly  wealth,  of 
the  revengeful  or  grateful  dead,  of  witches  half-human  and 
gods  or  demons  superhuman.    In  various  ways  they  tell  us 


196  TYPICAL  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

that  life  is  not  merely  a  struggle,  but  an  adventure.  What 
man  does  not  find,  but  still  desires,  in  this  world  they  pro- 
ject into  an  otherworld  and  invite  us  to  break  through.  This 
earliest  and  simplest  form  of  creative  idealism  has  changed 
its  details  and  its  language  from  century  to  century;  but  in 
essence  it  abides  because  it  reflects  a  motive  fundamentally 
human. 

The  converse  human  motive  is  to  deal  with  the  world  as 
it  has  been  found  by  experience.  Therefore  from  times  no 
less  ancient  come  down  tales  of  worldly  or  divine  wisdom, 
moral  tales.  In  their  conversational  form,  anecdote,  they 
have  often  been  pointed  by  humor  and  typically  close  on 
a  witty  retort.  For  the  illustration  of  oratory  they  have 
sometimes  been  more  sustained  and  more  suggestive.  Under 
the  title  exempla  they  fill  medieval  compends  intended  for 
the  illustration  of  sermons.  Among  the  most  sustained  and 
suggestive  of  exempla  in  western  Europe  are  legends  of  the 
saints,  especially  those  of  the  Virgin.  As  the  wisdom  in- 
culcated by  the  conte  devot  is  higher  than  worldly  prudence, 
so  the  movement  is  sometimes  larger,  and  rises  now  and 
then  to  striking  narrative  beauty,  as  in  The  Tumbler  of  Our 
Lady  and  some  of  the  traditions  of  St.  Francis.  But  typ- 
ically the  movement  of  even  the  longer  saints'  legends  is 
restricted.  The  tale  is  a  story  in  a  nutshell;  and  its  classic 
examples  are  those  ancient  beast-fables  which  go  by  the 
name  of  Aesop  and  were  recreated  in  literature  by  La  Fon- 
taine. Teaching  a  very  limited  and  practical  morality, 
they  teach  also  the  limited  and  practical  narrative  virtues 
of  conciseness  and  point. 

2    Epic  and  Romance 

The  complementary  human  impulses  to  reahsm  and  to 
idealism,  satisfied  most  simply  by  tales,  are  plain  in  the 
earliest  forms  of  more  extended  narrative,  epic  and  romance. 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE  197 

The  tale  is  perennial.  The  source  aUke  of  epic  and  of  ro- 
mance, it  survives  these  and  later  forms  and  seems  Ukely 
to  endure  as  long  as  men  Uve  in  the  world.  Epic,  on  the 
other  hand,  emerges  in  definite  form  at  a  later  stage  of 
culture,  romance  later  still;  and  each,  having  carried  to 
high  development  its  original  narrative  tendency,  has  faded 
into  later  narrative  forms. 

a.  EPIC 

The  Homeric  poems  as  we  have  them  date  from  a  firmly, 
though  simply,  organized  Greek  statehood;  the  Greek 
romances,  centuries  later,  from  its  decadence.  In  western 
Europe,  epic  dates  from  the  earlier  period  of  feudal  mon- 
archy, and  romance  from  its  prime.  In  France,  the  literary 
leader  of  the  middle  age,  the  epic  Chanson  de  Roland  was 
followed  almost  immediately  by  the  development  of  romance. 
In  the  Scandinavian  north,  the  epic  period  was  longer,  the 
epic  sagas  of  Old  Norse  outlasting  the  romantic  prime  of 
the  Latin  countries.  In  England,  the  epic  Beowulf  long 
antedates  the  French  Roland;  and  no  considerable  devel- 
opment of  romance  appears  before  the  French  invasion. 
What  concerns  us  in  these  typical  cases  is  not  the  historical 
sequence  for  itself,  but  the  ways  in  which  first  the  one  and 
then  the  other  fundamental  narrative  motive  worked  out 
extensively. 

Epic  as  it  appears  in  literature  is  obviously  composed  by 
single  poets;  but  no  less  obviously  it  is  composed  from 
anonymous  earlier  traditional  verse  tales  of  heroes,  such  as 
the  tale  of  the  Trojan  horse,  or  the  tale  of  dragon-slaying 
by  Siegfried  or  Beowulf.  The  English  Beowulf  gives  hints, 
and  the  Odyssey  fuller  indications,  of  how  the  minstrel 
adapted  and  combined^  earher  verse  tales  into  extended 

*  See  C.  S.  Baldwin,  Introduction  to  English  Medieval  Literature, 
pages  16-18. 


198  TYPICAL  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

narrative.  There  we  can  discern  the  epic  process  mid- 
way. Behind  the  local  minstrel  is  an  indefinite  accumu- 
lation of  traditional  hero  tales;  after  him  comes  in  time 
the  minstrel,  the  greater  spokesman-poet  seen  at  his  best  in 
Homer,  whose  art  is  sufficient  to  make  the  traditional  accu- 
mulation permanent  in  form  and  national  in  significance. 
Thus  in  all  its  stages  epic  is  communal;  it  is  essentially  the 
story  of  our  heroes;  and  its  practical  lesson  for  story-writing 
is  the  constant  popularity  of  fiction  that  images  the  greater 
historical  figures  of  our  common  faith.  Among  the  most 
popular  stories  of  any  age  or  race  are  those  whose  persons 
embody  communal  aspirations. 

Epic  is  practically  instructive  also  in  that  its  great  per- 
sons are  imaginatively  realized  as  individuals,  and  their 
golden  age  in  its  physical  details.  This  imaginative  recrea- 
tion of  the  past,  sometimes  significant  as  history,  is  always 
significant  as  poetry.  We  are  able  to  enter  imaginatively 
into  the  heroic  life  because  it  is  suggested  to  us  vividly  by 
concrete  abundance.  Even  the  somewhat  stinted  Ger- 
manic epics  summon  up  the  past  in  this  way. 

Then  was  time  and  hour 
that  to  hall  should  go  HeaKdene's  son; 
himself  the  king  would  sit  at  meat. 
Never  heard  I  that  a  greater  host  of  people 
around  their  prize-giver  proudly  gathered. 
Bent  them  to  benches  blithe  followers, 
fain  of  the  feasting.    Fairly  uplifted 
beakers  of  beer  their  brothers  mighty, 
drank  hail  to  them  deep  in  the  hall, 
Hrothgar  and  HrothuK.    Heorot  within  was 
filled  with  friends.    Any  foulness  then 
the  Scylding  people  scorned  to  perpetrate. 
Then  the  son  of  Healf  dene  handed  to  Beowulf 
a  golden  standard,  guerdon  of  his  victory, 


EPIC  AND  ROMANCE  199 

hand-wrought  hilted  banner,  hehn  and  bymie. 
From  the  hoard  a  huge  sword  beheld  full  many 
before  him  borne  at  bidding.  — Beowulf,  1008-1024. 

In  this  aspect  of  epic  Homer  is  a  model.  Not  only  is  he 
constantly  concrete  in  presenting  the  setting  of  heroic  life, 
the  launching  of  ships,  the  details  of  fighting,  feasting,  and 
worship;  but  he  gives  such  salience  to  his  crises  as  to 
impress  their  full  significance  of  mood,  emotion,  and  char- 
acter. Among  the  great  scenes  of  fiction  will  always  stand 
out  Helen  at  the  Scaean  Gate,  Hector  parting  from  Androm- 
ache, ship-wrecked  Odysseus  taken  by  Nausicaa  to  her 
father's  hall,  or  daunting  the  insolent  suitors. 

In  such  scenes  epic  reaches  the  height  of  its  composition. 
From  scene  to  scene  there  is  little  narrative  movement. 
Though  the  latter  part  of  the  Odyssey  has  some  cumula- 
tive effect,  even  Homer  does  not  generally  gather  momentum 
nor  work  for  any  total  impression.  Much  less  are  unity  and 
sustained  movement  attempted  in  other  early  epics.  Primi- 
tive epic,  in  contrast  with  the  artistic  epic  of  Vergil  or 
Milton,  is  a  chronological  accumulation  of  episodes,  each 
distinct  in  itself,  but  all  together  constitutiag  a  mere  series. 
Of  narrative  movement  it  teaches  only  the  detail  —  and  not 
always  even  this  —  of  weaving  the  setting  into  the  action 
(page  189).  Its  practical  lessons  for  story-writing  are  only 
the  two  cardinal  ones  of  commimal  interest  and  concrete 
realization. 

h.   ROMANCE 

Neither  of  these  two  interests  is  a  mainspring  of  romance. 
The  romantic  development  of  fairy  tales,  whether  of  oriental 
tradition,  or,  more  popularly  in  western  Europe,  of  Celtic 
folk-lore,  rather  blurs  whatever  there  may  have  been  in  the 
original  of  locality.  The  scenes  of  romance  may  have 
names,  though  often  even  these  are  vague  and  changeable, 


200  TYPICAL  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

but  they  have  no  local  habitations.  These  far  countries 
with  their  forests  and  castles  lack  the  epic  definiteness  of 
Hrothgar's  hall  or  the  haunted  mere  in  Beowulf,  of  Homer's 
halls  and  sea  and  shore.  The  fairyland  in  which  we  travel 
is  neither  here  nor  there,  but  always  beyond;  and  we  are 
left  to  make  up  most  of  the  scenery  for  ourselves.  Similarly 
vague  are  the  persons.  One  knight  or  damsel  is  so  like 
another  that  romances  have  been  transferred  bodily  from 
Gawain  to  Percival  or  Lancelot.  Persons  and  places  alike 
are  not  individual,  but  typical.  The  main  interest  of  ro- 
mance is  adventure  for  itself;  and  its  main  motive  is  gen- 
erosity. Its  generous  code  is  applied  in  love  and  in  chivalry. 
Instead  of  practical  consideration,  which  is  freely  recognized 
in  epic,  romance  is  animated  altogether  by  risk  and  devotion. 
Thus  it  answers,  not  what  we  do  and  are  actually,  but  what 
we  do  and  are  in  our  dreams  of  stronger  manhood  and  fairer 
womanhood  and  more  adventurous  hfe.  It  takes  us  out  of 
ourselves. 

The  desire  to  live  in  imagination  as  we  cannot  live  in  fact 
has  been  answered  by  romance,  through  many  changes  of 
taste  as  to  heroes  and  adventures,  in  ways  that  are  so  es- 
sentially similar  that  we  may  regard  them  as  typical.  Not 
only  have  knights  in  armor  and  ladies  in  long  sleeves  been 
revived  successfully  again  and  again  since  the  middle  age,  but 
contemporary  romantic  figures,  though  they  wear  modem 
clothes  and  sally  forth  on  motor  cars  and  aeroplanes  instead 
of  horses  to  far  countries  of  more  certain  geography,  are 
essentially  like  the  old  knights  in  stirring  us  by  adventure, 
generous  love,  and  chivalry,  are  like  them  also  in  being  less 
individuals  than  types.  Romantic  heroes,  heroines,  and 
villains  are  generally  types  because  romantic  interest  is  less 
in  what  they  are  than  in  what  they  do,  less  in  character  than 
in  adventure.  This  interest  is  answered  most  simply,  often 
even  crudely,  by  melodrama.    But  if  we  sneer  at  melodrama. 


NOVEL  {EXTENSIVE  REALIZATION)  201 

we  need  to  remind  ourselves  that  its  fundamental  interest 
is  nevertheless  permanently  human. 

Of  narrative  movement  the  romances  of  the  middle  age 
have  generally  no  more  than  has  epic.  Both  are  aggregative, 
or  at  best  cumulative,  relying  not  on  any  movement  of  the 
whole,  but  on  each  part  separately.  Their  practical  value 
for  the  study  of  story-writing  is  less  of  form  than  of  motive. 
In  this  aspect  epic  and  romance  are  complementary.  For 
though  romance  was  generally  later  in  reaching  extended 
development,  it  is  discernible  as  a  motive  beside  the  epic 
motive  of  the  Odyssey;  and  in  its  primitive  form  of  fairy  tale 
it  is  as  old  and  as  persistent  as  the  other  narrative  interest. 
Now  side  by  side,  now  yielding  the  one  to  the  other,  these 
fundamental  emotional  interests  have  survived  all  changes 
of  taste.  What  men  and  women  have  always  sought  in 
stories  is  imaginative  realization,  on  the  one  hand  of  them- 
selves and  their  common  achievements,  and  on  the  other 
hand  of  their  dreams. 

3.  Novel   (Extensive  Realization) 

The  term  novel  is  so  general  as  to  include  almost  any 
modem  long  story.  But  though  the  novel  is  too  various 
to  be  called  a  distinct  literary  form,  it  is  none  the  less  a  dis- 
tinct literary  development;  for  it  is  a  long  story  composed 
to  be  read  as  a  whole  and  sustaining  its  narrative  movement. 
Thus  the  development  of  the  novel,  the  gradual  advance 
toward  sustained  narrative  movement  by  modern  writers 
of  long  stories,  is  very  suggestive  practically.  The  long 
stories  of  Defoe  are  hardly  recognizable  to  our  time  as 
novels.  Like  the  French  romances  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  they  are,  so  far  as  form  goes,  mere  aggregations  of 
adventures.  Of  narrative  movement  they  have  nothing. 
Of  character  they  have  very  little.  Who  ever  cites  their 
persons?    The  triumph  of  Defoe  is  his  extraordinary  im- 


202  TYPICAL  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

aginative  realization.  His  scenes  are  so  specifically  concrete 
as  to  give  us  the  sense  of  actual  experience.  A  born  journal- 
ist, he  satisfied  the  popular  passion  for  Uving  imaginatively 
in  unusual  scenes.  His  pamphlets  and  his  longer  pieces 
alike  —  for  they  are  exactly  alike  in  method  —  are  modern 
newspaper  stories.  Which  is  fact  and  which  fiction  his 
contemporaries  were  often  unable  to  determine;  and  even 
we,  for  all  our  research,  cannot  always  make  up  our  minds. 
They  blamed  him,  and  we  praise  him,  for  "lying  like  truth. ^' 
He  achieved  an  almost  perfect  verisimilitude;  and  this  was 
the  first  practical  lesson  for  the  novel  from  rising  journaUsm. 

The  stories  of  Smollett  are  more  readily  accepted  as  novels; 
for  they  have  a  certain  degree  of  narrative  movement. 
Instead  of  merely  adding  scene  to  scene,  they  make  one 
scene  lead  on  to  the  next.  Smollett's  literary  model  was 
the  picaresque  or  rogue  story,  developed  in  Spain  and  known 
best  to  him,  as  to  us,  in  such  French  forms  as  Le  Sage's 
Gil  Bias.  Its  formula  is  simple.  A  shifty  fellow,  whose  lit- 
erary pedigree  can  be  traced  back  through  French,  Spanish, 
and  Italian  types  to  Latin  comedy,  is  involved  in  a  scrape. 
He  extricates  himself  by  his  wits;  but  in  so  doing  he  in- 
volves himself  in  another.  In  escaping  from  this  he  falls 
into  another;  and  so  on,  till  he  finally  triumphs.  But 
though  the  formula  is  simple,  the  effective  working  out 
demands  more  connection  between  parts  than  was  usually 
attempted  by  Defoe,  who  also  dealt  with  shifty  fellows. 
Thus  we  have,  as  an  added  narrative  enjoyment,  some  sense 
of  looking  ahead  and  moving  on.  Smollett  also  spent  more 
pains  than  Defoe  on  characterization.  His  "sad  sea-dog," 
indeed,  is  only  a  type;  but  the  Welsh  surgeon  in  Roderick 
Random,  developed  partly  by  mannerism  and  dialect,  rises 
beyond  this,  as  do  some  others  of  Smollett's  characters, 
toward  individuality. 

Characterization  had  already  been  carried  to  a  distinctly 


NOVEL  {EXTENSIVE  BEALIZATION)  203 

higher  degree  outside  of  the  novel.  One  of  the  chief  charac- 
ters of  eighteenth-century  fiction,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  is 
in  the  periodical  essays  of  the  Spectator;  and,  though  he  is 
the  most  eminent,  he  is  far  from  being  the  only  creation  of 
these  papers.  Some  of  the  people,  to  be  sure,  are  frankly 
put  forth  as  types.  The  idle  woman  of  fashion,  the  man 
about  town,  and  not  a  few  of  the  others  are  merely  repeti- 
tions of  traditional  "characters"  and  are  developed  in  the 
traditional  manner,  rather  by  discussion  than  by  narrative. 
But  Sir  Roger,  though  he  too  is  discussed,  is  also  narrated. 
We  see  him,  for  instance,  rousing  from  his  nap  in  church  to 
rebuke  other  sleepers.  There  is  of  course  no  narrative 
movement;  for  what  narrative  there  is  conforms  to  the 
general  essay  plan.  How  much  farther  such  narrative  can 
be  carried  without  forsaking  the  essay  method  appeared 
later  in  Irving.  Meantime  the  achievement  of  creative 
characterization  was  ready  at  hand  for  the  narrative  use 
of  the  right  novelist. 

The  right  noveUst,  the  man  to  appreciate  the  narrative 
elements  already  defined  in  story-telling  and  to  combine 
them  in  large  and  sustained  narrative  movement,  was 
Fielding.  Richardson,  composing  his  interminable  novels 
in  the  form  of  letters  written  by  the  characters,  had  not 
advanced  the  art  of  narrative  movement.  His  stories  pro- 
ceed by  the  old  accumulation.  Within  this  method  he  had, 
indeed,  advanced  the  art  of  characterization  beyond  the 
mere  depiction  of  a  character  to  its  development.  Very 
slowly,  even  laboriously,  his  persons  grow  before  our  eyes. 
His  characters  may  thus  be  said  to  move,  but  hardly  his 
action.  His  stories  are  not  merely  long;  they  are  tedious. 
The  art  of  movement,  of  so  composing  as  to  hold  attention 
on  the  scene  not  only  for  what  it  reveals,  but  for  what  it 
promises,  of  enhancing  interest  by  developing  character 
through   progressive   action,  of  making  a  long  story  not 


204  TYPICAL  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

merely  a  series  of  episodes,  but  by  interaction  a  series  of 
situations,  —  all  this  was  reserved  for  Fielding.  Sterne 
carried  to  the  highest  degree  the  art  of  interaction  in  detail, 
of  what  may  be  called  dramatic  description  (page  173). 
There  is  no  better  narrative  than  his  so  far  as  it  goes;  but 
it  seldom  goes  beyond  a  page;  sustained  narrative  he  did 
not  even  attempt.  Fielding,  less  expert  in  dramatic  descrip- 
tion, achieved  the  larger  art  of  dramatic  narrative.  He 
moves  through  a  whole  course  of  complications  to  a  solu- 
tion of  character. 

This  is  a  contribution  to  the  novel  from  the  drama. 
Though  Fielding  failed  as  a  playwright,  he  learned  from  the 
stage  the  art  of  interaction,  of  making  each  person  reveal 
both  himself  and  each  other  person  by  his  actions  on  them 
and  theirs  on  him  through  a  series  of  critical  situations. 
He  brings  his  persons  together  to  act  and  react.  No  pre- 
vious English  novels,  and  few  later  ones  for  some  years, 
show  such  expertness  with  critical  situations  as  enUvens  that 
Upton  inn  scene  in  Tom  Jones  where  on  the  same  spot  in 
rapid  succession  the  hero  yields  to  the  temptress  and  is 
abashed  at  the  unexpected  meeting  with  the  heroine,  and 
both  are  assailed  by  her  irate  father.  Interesting  for  itself 
in  characteristic  action,  this  scene  is  interesting  further  by 
making  us  look  forward  to  the  next.  To  compose  novels  by 
such  situations  has  long  been  usual;  but  in  its  time  this  was 
a  new  achievement.  It  was  the  final  stroke  in  the  develop- 
ment of  sustained  narrative.  In  Fielding's  hands  the  Eng- 
lish novel  reached  full  growth.  Later  writers,  refining  the 
art  and  extending  its  application,  have  added  nothing  essen- 
tial to  the  technic  of  the  novel.  Technically  this  method  of 
composition  accounts  also  for  Fielding's  superior  character- 
ization. As  observation  of  human  fife,  though  admirable, 
it  is  merely  broader,  not  finer,  than  Addison's  and  hardly 
more  penetrative  than  Richardson's;   but  it  is  superior  in 


SHORT  STORY  {INTENSIVE  INTERPRETATION)      205 

method.  It  develops  character,  not  by  mere  instances  of 
this  quaUty  and  that,  as  Addison  in  his  essays,  not  by  the 
slow  accumulation  of  Richardson,  but  narratively  by  making 
each  suggestion  of  speech,  gesture,  and  action  contribute 
to  the  movement  of  the  whole.  In  spite  of  some  surviving 
conventions,  such  as  the  introductions  to  the  several  stages 
and  the  interpolation  of  anecdote,  the  novel  moves  in  its 
main  course  as  a  whole,  and  all  its  elements  of  plot,  charac- 
ter, and  setting  move  together  in  harmony.  From  being  a 
program  of  related  musical  pieces  the  EngUsh  novel  became 
a  symphony. 

Further  than  this  the  novel  need  not  go  in  unity.  Though 
some  later  novels  have  been  harmonized  more  strictly,  and 
some  few  have  been  composed  almost  as  plays,  there  is  in 
this  direction  some  risk  of  sacrificing  what  we  all  desire  in 
a  novel,  a  sense  of  the  abundance  of  actual  life.  So  long 
as  the  main  course  of  the  story  is  clear  and  progressive,  we 
are  rather  pleased  than  annoyed  at  meeting  many  people 
and  adventures  by  the  way.  In  the  hands  of  its  most 
successful  writers  the  novel  has  pretty  generally  remained 
extensive  and  inclusive.  Thus,  as  they  seem  to  have  felt 
instinctively,  we  receive  more  of  the  illusion  of  experience. 
The  only  fundamental  demand  of  sustained  narrative  com- 
position is  that  it  should  constantly  be  narrative  and  that 
it  should  lead  us  on  through  unfolding  situations  to  a  solu- 
tion satisfying  as  the  outcome  of  character. 

4.  Short  Story  (Intensive  Interpretation) 

The  desire  for  fulness  in  story-telling,  satisfied  earlier 
in  epics  and  romances,  was  satisfied  more  continuously  later 
in  novels.  The  more  fundamental  desire  for  intensity  must 
be  answered  somewhat  by  a  story  of  any  form  whatsoever, 
since  all  story-telling  is  some  sort  of  imaginative  intensifi- 
cation.   But  in  the  teller's  emphasis  on  this  aspect  stories 


206  TYPICAL  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

have  differed  widely.  At  present  the  art  of  intensification 
has  been  for  fifty  years  a  maiiji  preoccupation.  The  over- 
whelmingly popular  form  of  narrative  is  the  *' short-story. '^ 
Though  the  name  is  unfortunately  vague,  the  form  is  quite 
distinct.  A  '' short-story"  is  the  narrative  intensification 
of  a  crisis.  Poe's  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher ^  Bret  Harte's 
Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  Stevenson's  Sire  de  Maletroifs  Door, 
and  a  score  of  others  rise  at  once  to  recollection  as  typical 
of  this  intense  realization  of  a  crisis.  The  antecedents  of 
the  crisis  are  merely  hinted;  and  the  skill  with  which  this 
hinting  is  made  clear,  brief,  and  interesting  is  a  large  part 
of  short-story  art.  The  consequences  of  the  crisis  are  not 
worked  out  beyond  the  immediate  issue;  i.e.,  this  imme- 
diate issue  is  so  vividly  told  as  to  be  both  satisfying  and 
suggestive.  A  single  situation  is  so  isolated  and  then  so 
filled  with  suggestion  as  to  constitute  a  complete  story. 

Though  in  this  distinct  and  recognized  form  the  short 
story  is  very  modem,  its  method  was  long  latent;  for  it  is 
the  very  essence  of  narrative.  Thus  in  looking  back  over 
earlier  stories  we  may  not  only  see  how  genius  shaped  nar- 
rative art  by  discerning  and  developing  certain  means  of 
intensification,  but,  more  practically,  review  what  those 
means  of  intensification  are.  The  primitive  and  perennial 
tale,  for  instance,  is  not  intense.  Other  narrative  merits 
it  may  have,  but  not  intensity.  Why?  Because  it  is  not 
focused,  but  diffused.  Its  conciseness  consists  in  touching 
several,  perhaps  many,  events  briefly  and  without  much 
emphasis  on  any  one.  It  is  often  a  story  long  in  the  time 
of  its  action  made  short  in  the  time  of  the  telling.  Thus 
equal  in  narrative  length  to  the  short  story,  or  even  shorter, 
it  is  diametrically  opposite  in  narrative  method. 

But  of  the  opposite  short-story  method,  of  the  narrative 
isolation  of  a  crisis,  there  must  have  been  very  early  in- 
stances, to  judge  from  echoes  in  popular  ballads.    Though 


SHORT  STORY  {INTENSIVE  INTERPRETATION)     207 

the  popular  ballads  as  finally  preserved  in  manuscript  are 
rarely  older  than  the  fifteenth  century,  and  some  of  them  are 
much  later,  they  probably  represent  an  older,  in  some  cases 
apparently  a  much  older,  oral  tradition.  To  this  earlier 
oral  habit  we  may  plausibly  ascribe  a  narrative  method 
very  common  in  popular  ballads,  especially  in  the  best,  the 
devotion  of  the  telling  to  a  single  crisis.  In  Edward,  Babylon, 
and  Sir  Patrick  Spence,  for  instance,  the  antecedent  action 
and  the  transitional  information  are  subordinated,  merely 
hinted  or  even  suppressed.  Simply,  almost  instinctively  it 
seems,  attention  is  thus  directed  to  a  brief  period  of  action 
in  a  single  main  scene.  Though  this  focusing  is  not  in  the 
ballads  highly  developed,  it  shows  that  even  popular  nar- 
rative was  not  confined  to  the  tale,  that  it  knew  not  only 
lucid  summary,  but  also  some  degree  of  intensification.  For 
even  if  the  ballads  go  back  less  far  into  oral  tradition  than 
is  commonly  supposed,  they  are  certainly  popular  and  cer- 
tainly not  modem.  Even  popular  and  fairly  early  narrative, 
then,  shows  the  narrative  value  of  intensification,  and  shows 
moreover  that  a  fundamental  method  of  intensification  is 
to  limit  the  story  in  place  and  time. 

The  lesson  of  narrative  intensification  is  naturally  clearer 
in  other  stories  which,  though  still  early,  are  works  of 
individual  genius.  Strip  Chaucer's  Pardoner's  Tale  of  the 
introduction  and  digression  which  are  merely  its  dramatic 
adjustment  to  the  Canterbury  series,  and  you  have  in  essence 
a  modern  short  story,  sharply  intensified  by  being  focused 
on  the  crisis  of  a  few  consecutive  hours.  The  essential  like- 
ness of  this  tale  to  a  modem  short  story  extends  even  to 
the  details  of  narrative  technic.  Poetically  compressed  be- 
yond the  possibiUties  of  prose,  it  yet  is  clearly  planned  in 
narrative  stages,  carried  on  by  dialogue,  enhanced  by  the 
suggestions  of  the  narrator,  advanced  to  a  highly  suggestive 
culmination.     It  is  in  every  respect  a  modern  short  story 


208  TYPICAL  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

in  miniature.  But  the  main  point  of  technic  is  its  intensi- 
fication by  limitation.  This  selective  method  may  be  seen 
less  sharply  in  the  Tale  of  the  Nun^s  Priest,  Chaucer's  delicious 
version  of  the  old  beast-fable  of  the  Cock  and  the  Fox,  in 
one  or  two  of  his  fabliaux j  as  in  other  medieval  stories  of  this 
type,  and  in  a  few  stories  of  Boccaccio's  Decameron}  It  is 
even  found  now  and  then  much  earlier.  Neither  generally 
popular,  nor  quite  distinct  as  a  literary  form  imtil  modem 
times,  it  has  from  of  old  been  a  distinct  narrative  method. 

Showing  all  the  narrative  essentials  (page  161),  concrete 
realization,  emotional  interpretation,  and,  even  in  its  limited 
scope,  movement,  the  short  story  relies  mainly  on  the  second, 
on  interpretation.  Interpretation,  the  shaping  of  the  story 
to  carry  a  single  emotional  impression,  so  dominates  the 
other  two  essentials  as  to  make  this  form  of  intense  realiza- 
tion distinct  from  the  extensive  realization  of  epic,  romance, 
and  novel.  This  process  of  unification  consists  in  imagina- 
tively enhancing  one  scene  at  one  time,  in  making  a  brief 
period  eloquent  of  both  past  and  future,  in  dwelling  on  a 
single  situation  till  it  yields  its  full  emotion.  For  narrative 
unity  is  not  negative;  its  limitation  is  solely  for  the  pur- 
pose of  filling  the  limits.  It  makes  part  of  the  tale  tell  the 
whole  story  fully.  When  we  say  that  the  seventh  chapter 
of  Judges,  which  recoimts  the  victory  of  Gideon  and  his 
chosen  few,  or  the  eighteenth  chapter  of  Second  Samuel, 
with  its  tragedy  of  the  death  of  Absalom,  or  the  story 
of  Daniel  in  the  Hons'  den,  or  any  one  of  a  himdred  other 
chapters  in  history,  would  make  sl  short  story,  we  do  not 
mean  that  it  is  a  short  story;  for  its  realization  is  not  full. 
It  isolates  the  situation  without  intensifying;  it  is  unified 
without  being  filled.  And  this  is  so  partly  because  the 
object  of  these  narratives  is  not,  except  by  the  way,  imagi- 

1  For  technical  analysis  of  the  Decameron  see  C.  S.  Baldwin,  Aweri-. 
can  Short  Stories,  pages  26-28. 


SHORT  STORY    {INTENSIVE  INTERPRETATION)     209 

native  realization,  and  partly  because  they  are  chapters  in 
a  longer  narrative.  None  the  less  our  modem  preoccupa- 
tion in  distinguishing  such  scenes  or  chapters,  in  seizing 
them  from  their  context  in  history  or  in  hfe,  is  right.  They 
would  make  short  stories  because,  whether  from  accident 
or  from  design,  they  are  complete,  self-consistent,  carrying 
•within  their  brief  course  the  suggestion  of  both  past  and 
future. 

That  they  lack  full  realization  does  not  make  them  the 
less  instructive  practically.  For  they  show  how  much  even 
a  single  situation  may  yield  of  narrative  movement  (see 
page  189),  how  unity  is  achieved  not  only  by  limiting  time 
and  place,  but  also  by  the  dominance  throughout  of  a  single 
character,  and  how  eloquent  are  even  meager  suggestions 
of  speech  and  gesture,  such  as  the  young  David's  putting 
away  of  Saul's  armor  (1  Samuel  xvii.  39),  or  Joab's  dialogue 
with  the  young  man  who  reported  to  him  the  plight  of 
Absalom  (2  Samuel  xviii.  11-14).  Occasional  ampler  sug- 
gestions of  such  details  —  Esther's  ''If  I  perish,  I  perish," 
Da\dd's  ''Absalom,  my  son,  my  son!"  —  stand  out  among 
the  memorable  passages  of  literature,  and  show  what  the 
whole  story  would  be,  told  on  that  scale. 

Thus  even  early  stories  show  how  much  narrative  inten- 
sity comes  from  isolating  a  crisis,  from  holding  attention 
on  its  main  person,  and  from  moving  within  its  short  time 
scene  by  scene  to  a  climax.  Modern  art  invites  us  further 
to  intensify  within  these  limits  by  increasing  the  number 
of  concrete  suggestions,  by  realizing  more  distinctly  the 
persons  and  the  scene,  till  the  actions  sketched  in  a  page 
are  brought  out  in  six  pages.  This  is  to  bring  the  story 
home;  but  no  less  to  bring  the  story  home  is  the  narrative 
device  of  Umitation.  The  two  are  complementary.  The 
whole  art  of  narrative,  reduced  to  its  essence,  consists  in 
selecting    and    intensifying   situations;     and    for    practical 


210  TYPICAL  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

study  of  it  the  best  form,  as  it  is  the  only  distinct  form,  is 
the  short  story. 

6.  History  and  Biography 

From  all  these  narrative  forms  we  sharply  distinguish 
nowadays  history  and  biography.  These  we  hardly  think 
of  as  imaginative  composition;  we  conceive  them  usually 
as  discussion.  Yet  they  are  still  narrative  to  the  extent 
of  being  mainly  chronological;  and  in  earlier  times  they  were 
narrative  more  frankly  and  more  largely.  As  the  word 
history  and  the  word  story  are  etymologically  the  same,  so 
our  modem  distinction  between  narrative  of  fact  and  nar- 
rative of  fiction  was  not  made  in  early  narrative.  Not  only 
were  both  frankly  traditional;  both  were  called  by  the 
same  name.  Neither  the  word  nor  the  thing  was  clearly 
differentiated.  Historia,  or  its  vernacular  derivative,  was 
applied  indifferently  to  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth's  account  of 
the  kings  of  Britain,  which  is  largely  imaginative,  to  other 
narratives  more  historical  in  our  modem  sense,  and  to  the 
story  of  the  Holy  Grail,  which  is  both  legendary  and  poetic. 
Consequently  there  is  no  sharp  distinction  of  literary  form 
between  the  medieval  histories  and  the  medieval  romances. 
In  either  the  story  is  told  in  much  the  same  way. 

A  fairly  clear  distinction,  however,  appears  in  the  word 
chronicle.  A  chronicle  was  a  record,  usually  a  bare  diary. 
The  "Anglo-Saxon''  Chronicle,  for  instance,  is  neither 
history  nor  story  in  our  modem  sense,  but  merely  material 
for  either  (see  page  168).  How  an  earUer  historian  composed 
such  material,  and  also  the  legendary  material  which  to 
him  seemed  historical  also,  is  seen  typically  in  Herodotus. 
There  is  very  evidently  a  plan  of  the  whole;  though  the 
order  is  generally  chronological,  chronology  is  not  regarded 
as  sufficient  of  itself;  and  there  is  a  clear  intention  to  pre- 
sent details  imaginatively,  sometimes  in  scenes  handled  as 


HISTORY  AND  BIOGRAPHY  211 

the  scenes  of  fiction.  A  more  modem  method  is  typified  by 
Thucydides.  Though  he  keeps  the  imaginative  reahzation 
of  scenes  and  enhances  the  imaginative  reahzation  of  per- 
sons, he  turns  the  composition  of  the  whole  toward  the 
logical  unity  sought  by  discussion.  The  interpretation  as  a 
whole  is  less  that  of  poetic  than  that  of  rhetoric.  In  modem 
times,  history  has  grown  into  forms  less  and  less  narrative, 
more  and  more  expository,  until  to-day  its  narrative  is 
typically  not  story  at  all  in  the  usual  sense,  but  a  state- 
ment of  facts  identical  in  kind  with  that  of  a  lawyer's  brief, 
because  adapted  to  the  same  purpose. 

Without  attempting  to  estimate  the  profit  and  loss  of  this 
recent  trend,^  we  may  see  that  the  appeal  of  earlier  histories, 
and  of  such  modem  histories  as  are  also  stories,  is  to  an 
interest  still  very  Uvely,  especially  in  the  young.  Such  his- 
torical narratives  as  those  of  Froissart  or  Villani  are  still  read 
because  their  facts  are  not  merely  verified  and  recounted, 
but  also  visualized.  They  interpret  history  imaginatively 
as  the  deeds  of  persons.  Whether  this  is  more  or  less  im- 
portant than  to  interpret  it  logically  as  social  movements, 
it  is  at  any  rate  still  desired.  And  probably  men  and  women 
will  always  desire,  not  only  to  be  informed  conceming  facts 
and  enUghtened  as  to  their  bearing,  but  also  to  be  stimu- 
lated toward  realizing  them  imaginatively  as  deeds.  In 
distinguishing  sharply  between  history  and  story  we  have 
gained  in  cleamess  of  conception;  the  two  should  never  be 
confused.  But  we  imduly  restrict  our  historical  art  when 
we  make  the  method  of  the  one  exclusive  of  the  method  of 
the  other.  Like  argument  (page  152),  exposition  of  history 
needs  the  help  of  imaginative  realization.  That  this  may 
be  extravagant  or  dishonest  only  makes  more  important  the 
using  of  it  well.    With  historical  material,  above  all  other 

*  Compare  on  this  point  Macaulay's  essay  on  History  with  his  own 
practise. 


212  TYPICAL  NARRATIVE  FORMS 

material  of  exposition,  the  art  of  presentation  must  add 
poetic  to  rhetoric.  Extravagance  of  imagination  may  be 
due  to  the  very  segregation  of  it  with  dreams  apart  from 
facts.  In  no  field  may  imagination  be  more  wholesome  and 
fruitful  than  in  history.  If  it  were  exercised  oftener  in 
college,  we  might  in  time  have  historical  studies  written 
that  would  be  the  nearer  to  truth  for  being  readable. 

That  imaginative  appeal  should  not  be  restricted  to  fiction 
is  obvious  in  that  branch  of  history  which  we  separate,  and 
neglect,  as  biography.  To  present  a  man  or  a  woman  truly 
is  a  task  demanding  skill  in  both  fields  of  composition,  that 
of  ideas  and  that  of  images.  More  biographies  would  be 
read  if  more  were  better  written.  Neither  a  cyclopedic 
chronicle  of  facts  nor  on  the  other  hand  a  so-called  historical 
novel  meets  this  opportunity.  The  art  of  Plutarch  and  the 
art  of  Plato,  though  not  in  detail  adaptable  to  our  time, 
continue  to  show  that  strong  imaginative  effects  may  be 
achieved  within  a  length  feasible  for  college  students,  that 
these  effects  help,  not  hinder,  the  logical  interpretation,  and 
above  all  that  biography  on  these  terms  must  always  be 
worth  writing.  Biography  answers  a  perennial  popular  de- 
mand for  great  examples;  and  it  gives  far  more  scope  than 
is  generally  realized  for  originality,  not  only  in  variety  and 
proportion  of  treatment,  but  in  the  conception  and  movement 
of  the  whole. 

History  and  biography,  then,  are  in  a  border-land  be- 
tween rhetoric  and  pOetic.  In  recent  times  they  have 
passed  over  largely  to  the  former;  but  earlier  experience 
shows  conclusively  their  opportunity  also  in  the  latter. 
From  this  they  may  not  only  learn  to  give  their  specific 
and  verified  detail  in  concrete  language,  but  also  borrow,  in 
ways  various  enough  for  the  highest  originality,  the  art  of 
narrative  movement. 


WRITING  BY  SCENES  213 

II.  THE  TECHNIC  OF  NARRATIVE  MOVEMENT 
1.  Writing  by  Scenes 
Centuries  of  story-telling  show  certain  ways  bf  composi- 
tion to  be  generally  effective  for  narrative  movement.  The 
first  of  these  may  be  called  writing  by  scenes;  i.e.,  compos- 
ing the  story  by  stages,  each  distinct  and  full,  each  preparing 
for  the  next,  all  leading  up  to  a  satisfying  conclusion.  This 
at  once  suggests  logical  composition  of  a  speech  or  essay  by 
paragraphs  (page  40);  and  the  likeness  holds  to  a  certain 
extent.  Each  scene,  like  each  paragraph,  is  determined  by 
the  plan  of  the  whole,  and  in  turn  furthers  the  whole  co- 
herence. A  clear  issue  for  each  scene  is  the  best  means  of 
enabling  the  reader  to  follow  surely  to  the  next,  as  para- 
graph emphasis  (page  51)  is  the  surest  means  toward  the 
coherence  of  the  whole.  Farther  the  resemblance  does  not 
go.  A  scene  is  not  like  a  paragraph.  Its  unity  is  not  of  a 
controlling  idea,  but  of  a  controlling  emotion.  So  the  plan 
of  a  story  is  not  a  course  of  ideas  grasped  intellectually,  but 
a .  course  of  actions  realized  as  significant  emotionally.  The 
barely  sketched  scene  {2  Samuel  xviii.  11-14)  between 
Joab  and  the  soldier  who  reported  the  phght  of  Absalom 
has  no  underlying  proposition.  It  cannot  be  summed  up 
in  a  sentence.  Yet  it  is  dominated  by  the  feeling  of  Joab's 
ruthless  and  single-minded  certitude.  It  is  quite  distinct 
in  itself;  and  it  is  a  crisis  in  the  action.  It  shows  the 
inevitable  course  of  the  story,  pointing  ahead  toward  its 
tragic  close.  The  following  instance  from  a  long  modern 
novel  shows  the  same  sort  of  composition.  General  Webb 
finds  himself  cheated  of  due  honor  by  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough's report  in  the  gazette. 

Mr.  Webb,  reading  the  gazette,  looked  very  strange  —  slapped 
it  down  on  the  table  —  then  sprung  up  in  his  place,  and  began, 
"Will  your  Highness  please  to  — " 


214       THE^TECHNIC  OF  NARRATIVE  MOVEMENT 

His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  here  jumped  up  too  — 
"There's  some  mistake,  my  dear  General  Webb." 

"Your  Grace  had  best  rectify  it,"  says  Mr.  Webb,  holding  out 
the  letter.  But  he  was  five  feet  off  his  Grace  the  Prince-Duke,  who 
besides  was  higher  than  the  General  .  .  .  and  Webb  could  not 
reach  him,  tall  as  he  was. 

"Stay,"  says  he  with  a  smile,  as  if  catching  at  some  idea;  and 
then,  with  a  perfect  courtesy,  drawing  his  sword,  he  ran  the  gazette 
through  with  the  point  and  said,  "Permit  me  to  hand  it  to  your 
Grace."  —  Thackeray,  Henry  Esmond,  Book  II,  Chapter  xv. 

This  is  at  once  distinct,  or  unified,  in  the  sense  of  impress- 
ing a  single  emotion,  and  suggestive  in  the  sense  of  making 
us  wonder  and  guess  ahead.  In  both  senses  it  is  significant. 
By  making  it  distinct  and  self-consistent  Thackeray  best 
makes  the  whole  story  move  on  and  also  lead  up  to  a  satis- 
fying close.  The  value  of  narrative  emphasis  to  narrative 
coherence  may  be  expressed  technically,  then,  in  the  maxim, 
Write  by  scenes;  make  each  scene  fully  distinct  to  the  im- 
agination for  itself;  make  it  significant  for  the  whole  story 
by  making  it  prepare  for  the  final  scene;  write  every  scene 
for  the  climax  of  them  all. 

Narrative  movement,  then,  consists  practically  in  work- 
ing from  crisis  to  crisis.  Conversely,  those  stories  which 
lack  movement  lack  distinct  crises.  They  lack  salience. 
Much  amateur  narrative  is  dull  because  no  moment  stands 
out.  The  story  is  on  a  dead  level.  This  effect,  of  course,  is 
produced  by  summary,  as  in  many  dull  tales;  and  in  tales  that 
are  not  dull  at  least  some  parts  emerge  as  distinct  scenes. 
The  level  narrative  of  Defoe  (page  201)  would  be  dull  but 
for  the  extraordinary  force  of  its  concreteness.  The  livelier 
and  more  exciting  narrative  of  Smollett  (page  202)  is  written 
by  scenes.  The  significance  of  his  scenes  in  a  plodding  but 
steady  development  of  character  saves  Richardson's  pro- 
lixity from  becoming  intolerable;  and  in  the  art  of  writing  by 


WRITING  BY  SCENES  215 

scenes  Fielding  (page  204)  is  a  master.  The  same  technical 
means  of  movement  may  be  seen  outside  of  fiction.  Those 
chapters  of  history  which  most  stir  imagination  and  remain 
in  memory  are  written  so.  The  Book  of  Daniel  thus  makes 
saHent  the  writing  on  the  wall  and  the  lions'  den.  The 
history  of  Joseph  in  the  Book  of  Genesis  is  clearly  composed 
by  memorable  crises,  each  one  distinctly  significant  toward 
the  inevitable  issue:  the  complication  at  the  well,  the  com- 
plication with  Potiphar's  wife,  the  crisis  of  the  dreams,  the 
recognition  scene.  The  saliences  of  the  Book  of  Esther  are 
dramatically  vivid:  Mordecai's  refusal  to  bow  to  Haman, 
*'What  shall  be  done  to  the  man  whom  the  king  delighteth 
to  honor?"  *'If  I  perish,  I  perish,"  and  the  denunciation 
at  the  banquet.  As  story-telling  may  be  said  to  start  from 
the  discernment  of  crises,  so  it  goes  on  by  writing  from  crisis 
to  crisis. 

For  that  this  method  is  essential  is  seen  even  in  brief  nar- 
rative. The  story  of  the  death  of  Absalom  {2  Samuel  xviii) 
stands  out  vividly  from  its  context,  and  will  always  be  re- 
membered and  quoted,  because,  though  it  is  not  realized 
fully,  the  tragic  emotion  is  brought  out  stage  by  stage.^ 
Each  scene  prepares  for  the  next  and  for  the  final  issue; 
we  are  led  on  step  by  step.  First  is  the  old  king's  review  of 
his  loyal  army  as  they  go  out  to  crush  rebellion.  Rebellion 
must  be  crushed;  but  must  the  arch-rebel  be  crushed  too? 
Hoping  against  reason,  the  old  king  pathetically  charges, 
"Deal  gently  for  my  sake  with  the  young  man."  He  is 
after  all  so  young;  and  he  is  after  all  my  son.  At  last  the 
name  is  brought  out,  ''even  with  Absalom."  Here  we  have 
the  whole  tragic  situation;  but  we  know  nothing  definitely 
of  how  it  will  be  worked  up. 

Then  come  the  battle  and  the  defeat,  passed  over  rapidly 

*  This  paragraph  and  the  three  following  are  quoted  from  the 
author's  The  English  Bible  as  a  Guide  to  Writing,  pages  139-142. 


216       THE  TECHNIC  OF  NARRATIVE  MOVEMENT 

because  the  story  is  of  individuals.  *'The  wood  devoured 
more  people  that  day  than  the  sword  devoured.''  What 
then?  We  come  at  once  to  the  main  actors.  Absalom  in 
headlong  flight  is  caught  by  the  hair.  Joab,  with  brutal 
frankness,  cries,  "And  behold  thou  sawest  him?  And  why 
didst  thou  not  smite  him?"  We  begin  to  see  how  events 
will  slip  from  David's  control  because  his  chieftains  are  too 
headstrong  and  too  uncompromising  for  him.  The  scene  is 
more  exciting,  more  intense,  than  the  preceding.  At  the 
same  time  it  is  a  thoroughly  natural  sequel.  Joab  smites. 
After  that  stroke  ten  others  follow.  Joab  sounds  the  recall. 
He  is  not  merely  bloody.  He  has  struck  the  chief.  The 
rest  are  scattered.     It  is  all  over. 

No.  What  of  the  king  now?  He  is  waiting,  still  miserably 
hoping.  Up  springs  Ahimaaz,  begging  for  the  privilege  of 
breaking  the  news.  But  Joab  thinks  the  friend's  way  may 
not  be  the  kindest,  or  perhaps  he  fears  that  version  of  his 
stroke.  'His  words  sound  hesitant.  He  sends  Cushi.  But 
Ahimaaz  still  begs;  and  Joab,  still  hesitating,  lets  him  go. 

How  will  the  king  take  it?  This  is  the  last  scene.  We 
see  it  with  his  eyes.  We  are  taken  back  to  the  gate  to  watch 
the  runners  coming.  There  is  increasing  intensity  of  sus- 
pense here.  First  the  watchman  sights  a  moving  speck. 
*'If  he  be  alone,"  says  the  king,  ''there  is  tidings."  ''Be- 
hold another  man."  "He  also,"  says  the  breathless  king, 
"bringeth  tidings."  "The  running  of  the  foremost  is  like 
the  running  of  Ahimaaz."  The  king  catches  at  a  last  straw. 
"He  is  a  good  man,  and  cometh  with  good  tidings."  At 
last  the  king  is  face  to  face  with  the  news.  We  lean  forward 
with  him  as  Ahimaaz  cries  victory.  We  hear  his  low  ques- 
tion, "Is  the  young  man  Absalom  safe?"  There  is  a  dread- 
ful pause  while  Ahimaaz  equivocates  for  love.  The  king 
knows.  Does  he  not  hear  the  ominous  words  "Joab"  — 
"tumult"?    But  he  nerves  himself.     "Turn  aside,  and  stand 


CLIMAX  217 

here.''  He  repeats  his  question  to  Cushi.  The  answer,  still 
indirect,  is  but  too  plain.  The  bolt  has  fallen.  Love  and 
loyalty  cannot  parry  it.  "And  the  king  was  much  moved, 
and  went  up  to  the  chamber  over  the  gate,  and  wept;  and 
as  he  went,  thus  he  said,  O  my  son  Absalom,  my  son,  my 
son  Absalom!  would  God  I  had  died  for  thee,  O  Absalom, 
my  son,  my  son!"  Much  of  the  tremendous  force  of  this 
memorable  climax  is  the  force  of  momentum,  the  force  of 
the  movement  that  carries  us  scene  by  scene  to  the  last. 

2.  Climax 

This  implies,  in  proportion  as  a  story  is  made  intense, 
writing  the  whole  story  toward  the  close,  writing  for  the  end, 
or  climax.  The  word  climax  has  come  to  be  used  technically 
in  two  distinct  senses.  As  applied  to  plays,  it  is  often  used 
to  mean  that  particular  crisis  in  the  midst  of  the  action 
which  is  the  turning-point;  as  applied  to  stories  it  is  more 
generally  used  to  mean  the  final  scene,  the  issue,  or  outcome. 
Used  in  this  latter  sense,  the  climax  determines  the  whole 
story.  We  might  almost  say  that  it  is  the  whole  story;  for 
no  one  really  has  a  story  to  write  until  he  has  its  climax. 
There  the  whole  story  comes  out  in  its  final  significance. 
The  end  of  a  fairy  story,  simplest  example  of  all,  is  the 
satisfaction  of  poetic  justice;  the  slipper  fits,  and  Cinderella 
is  a  princess.  The  popular  fable  of  the  Cock  and  the  Fox 
formulates  its  theme,  as  many  fables  do,  in  the  final  retort 
of  the  cock  on  his  escape.  The  whole  Pardoner's  Tale  of 
Chaucer  (page  207)  is  emotionally  summed  up  in  the  dead 
bodies  of  the  three  who  dared  death.  This  last  climax  is 
at  once  felt  to  be  more  purely  narrative.  It  is  no  logical 
iteration  of  the  theme,  but  an  inevitable  outcome  of  the 
characters  through  the  action;  its  final  significance  is  emo- 
tional. Thus  a  narrative  climax  is  no  summary,  but  the 
scene  which  images  in  action  the  final  revelation. 


218       THE  TECHNIC  OF  NARRATIVE  MOVEMENT 

"To  arms!  —  to  arms!  —  the  Prussians."  And  the  four  Uhlans 
of  the  advance  guard  might  have  seen  up  there,  on  the  balcony,  a 
tall  old  man  stagger,  wave  his  arms,  and  fall.  This  time  Colonel 
Jouve  was  dead. 

—  Close  of  Alphonse  Daudet's  Le  Siege  de  Berlin. 

The  little  seamstress  gazed  at  this  letter  a  long  time.  Perhaps 
she  was  wondering  in  what  Ready  Letter-Writer  of  the  last  cen- 
tury Mr.  Smith  had  found  this  form.  Perhaps  she  was  amazed  at 
the  results  of  his  first  attempt  at  punctuation.  Perhaps  she  was 
thinking  of  something  else,  for  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  and  a 
smile  on  her  small  mouth. 

But  it  must  have  been  a  long  time,  and  Mr.  Smith  must  have 
grown  nervous,  for  presently  another  communication  came  along 
the  line  where  the  top  of  the  cornice  was  worn  smooth.    It  read: 

//  not  understood  will  you  mary  me 

The  httle  seamstress  seized  a  piece  of  paper  and  wrote: 

'  If  I  say  YeSf  will  you  speak  to  me? 

Then  she  rose  and  passed  it  out  to  him,  leaning  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  their  faces  met. 

—  Close  of  H.  C.  Bunner's  Love-Letters  of  Smith. 

A  classic  instance  of  climax  achieved  by  gathered  momen- 
tum is  the  close  of  Poe's  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher.  Thus 
the  quaint  maxim  that  a  story  should  be  written  backwards 
means  practically  that  the  writer,  once  he  has  conceived 
the  situation,  and  before  he  starts  the  action  on  its  course, 
should  realize  the  climax,  not  merely  as  an  idea,  nor  in  gen- 
eral, but  in  the  very  actions  and  gestures  and  speech  of  his 
characters  in  the  final  scene. 

3.  Complication  and  Solution 

A  traditional  formula  for  narrative  movement  is  expressed 
in  the  French  noHment  and  dSnoHment,  tying  and  imtying, 
complication  and  solution.  The  story  involves  its  charac- 
ters in  difficulty  and  then  extricates  them;  the  earUer  course 


COMPLICATION  AND  SOLUTION  219 

weaves  a  plot,  and  the  conclusion  solves  it.  The  complica- 
tion of  Cinderella  is  the  successive  acts  of  cruel  selfishness 
by  the  stepmother  and  stepsisters  and  finally  the  loss  of  the 
slipper;  the  solution  is,  The  shpper  fits.  This,  indeed,  is 
common  to  many  sorts  of  stories,  still  more  common  in  plays, 
and  most  common  in  farce.  But  it  is  too  general  to  give 
much  practical  guidance  in  narrative  movement;  and  it  is 
often  apphed  formally  and  mechanically.  So  applied,  it 
may  quite  defeat  narrative  movement  by  cutting  a  story  in 
two.  Thus  it  will  make  the  same  damaging  interruption 
as  those  stars  which  amateurs  are  fond  of  writing  across  the 
page  to  indicate  a  break  in  the  action.  The  action  should 
not  break.  To  compose  a  story  by  scenes  is  not  to  break 
it  into  separate  episodes.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  to  prepare 
the  way  for  that  constant  movement  which  is  the  life  of 
narrative.  The  distinctness  of  each  scene  does  not  halt  us; 
it  leads  us  on.  The  significance  which  unifies  a  scene  is  its 
suggestion  of  what  may  ensue;  and  the  suggestions  cumu- 
late up  to  the  final  revelation. 

The  idea  of  complication,  however,  though  not  sufficient 
as  a  story  plan,  may  be  helpful  in  the  earlier  stages  of  think- 
ing the  story  out  before  writing.  Complication  suggests 
the  value  of  suspense,  the  value  of  such  obstacles  as  may 
bring  out  character  and  enhance  the  interest  of  plot.  It 
should  suggest  also  exploring  the  possibilities  of  interaction 
(page  189),  of  using  fully  the  revelation  of  one  character 
by  another.  This  may  promote  narrative  movement  by 
providing  a  way  to  avoid  tedious  explanation  and  de- 
scription, or  the  chronological  enumeration  characteristic  of 
summary  tales. 

Solution,  in  a  general  sense,  is  necessary.  The  close  must 
be  satisfying  —  not  merely  satisfactory  in  the  sense  of  being 
approved,  but  satisfying  in  the  sense  of  making  us  feel  the 
story  ''natural"  or  ''convincing."    When  we  say  that  a 


220       THE  TECH  NIC  OF  NARRATIVE  MOVEMENT 

story  is  convincing,  we  mean  that  the  emotion  it  has  aroused 
is  satisfied.  The  story,  we  feel,  had  to  end  in  that  way. 
We  are  bored  or  offended  by  those  amateur  endings  which 
are  mere  surprises,  or,  still  more  crudely,  mere  reversals  of 
the  story's  course.  For  compUcation  and  solution,  most 
simply  and  fundamentally  considered,  mean  cause  and  effect, 
as  in  the  inevitable  issue  of  the  character  of  Joseph  or  Moses. 
Surprised  we  often  like  to  be,  but  only  when  we  are  also 
satisfied,  when  we  can  say,  ''I  did  not  think  of  that;  but  it 
would  be  so."  In  O.  Henry's  story  the  shop-girl  who  wished 
to  marry  a  millionaire  finally  marries  the  sweetheart  of  her 
friend  the  laundress.  This  is  a  surprise,  but  almost  in  the 
same  breath  it  is  a  satisfaction ;  for  the  story,  without  divulg- 
ing this  denoiiment,  has  prepared  us  for  it  as  a  convincing 
solution  of  character.  Solution  thus  broadly  means  emo- 
tional satisfaction,  the  assured  outcome  of  those  characters 
in  those  situations.  It  does  not  necessarily  mean  a  full 
working  out  of  the  issues.  That  is  more  typical  of  a  play. 
On  the  stage  the  solution  usually  demands,  in  proportion 
to  the  whole  course  of  action,  more  time.  A  story,  especially 
a  modern  story,  often  ends  with  a  suggestion.  We  are  even 
impatient  nowadays  of  stories  that  work  out  what  we  can 
readily  imagine  for  ourselves.  But,  however  brief,  the  sug- 
gestion must  be  clear.  We  demand  to  know  enough  to 
keep  as  the  total  result  a  single  clear  emotion.  We  prefer, 
indeed,  in  reading  Daudet's  La  Derniere  Classe,  not  to  be 
told  just  what  M.  Hamel  did  after  his  last  class;  but  that 
is  because  it  is  all  clearly  suggested  by  the  emotion  of 
his  last  words  on  the  blackboard.  The  final  suggestion  is 
pregnant. 

4.  Weaving  In 

In  the  large,  then,  narrative  movement  is  sustained  move- 
ment, or  momentum,  the  composing  of  a  story  in  such  a 
way  that  its  opening  will  claim  an  interest  which  its  course 


WEAVING  IN  221 

will  enhance  and  its  conclusion  will  satisfy.  The  technic 
is  like  the  technic  of  discussion  in  so  far  as  it  too  consists  of 
taking  hold,  going  on,  and  bringing  home  (page  55);  but 
since  what  a  story  seizes,  holds,  and  reveals  is  emotional, 
its  course  is  not  by  paragraphs;  it  is  by  scenes,  by  imagina- 
tive significances.  We  are  carried  on,  not  from  idea  to  idea 
to  a  conclusion,  but  from  suggestion  to  suggestion  to  a  revela- 
tion. Therefore  the  detail  of  story  technic  differs  from  the 
technic  of  the  paragraph.  The  aim  of  a  story  being  to  create 
and  keep  an  illusion  of  actual  experience,  a  sense  of  sharing 
in  the  action,  the  technic  of  detail  consists  essentially  in 
making  the  story  move  always  as  a  story,  always  by  images. 
Negatively  this  means  suppressing  explanation  and  comment; 
positively  it  means  making  everything  that  is  included  part 
of  the  course  of  the  story. 

The  fundamental  narrative  principle  of  concreteness 
(page  165)  bids  us  express  always  in  terms  of  the  sensations 
of  the  actors,  not  in  terms  of  the  author^s  reflection  or  sum- 
mary. Narrative  always  proceeds  most  surely  by  suggest- 
ing images  directly,  not  by  explaining  or  commenting. 
Explanation  or  comment  almost  always  interrupts  the  move- 
ment, and  always  tends,  as  we  say,  to  break  the  spell.  We 
prefer  to  have  the  writer  provide  the  experience  and  to  make 
our  own  reflections.  We  may  even  resent  comment  as  of- 
ficious. Sometimes  we  find  ourselves  saying  mentally,  Go 
on;  it  is  your  persons  and  your  events  that  I  wish,  not  you. 
Thus  one  of  the  first  tasks  of  revision  is  to  free  the  story 
from  clogs  (page  181),  to  give  it  a  straight  course.  To  keep 
oneself  out  of  his  story  does  not  mean  being  unsympathetic 
or  detached;  it  means  making  the  story  seem  to  tell  itself, 
to  move  without  being  from  time  to  time  wound  up,  to  be 
all  story  and  not  partly  essay.  That  is  why  the  Norse 
sagas,  even  when  they  are  stinted  and  abrupt,  hold  interest. 
They  are  straight  narrative,  iminterrupted  by  comment. 


222       THE  TECHNIC  OF  NARRATIVE  MOVEMENT 

As  the  narrator  should  not  tell  us  what  to  think  or  feel, 
but  make  the  actions  of  his  characters  suggest  that  thought 
or  feehng,  so  he  need  not  make  his  characters  describe  their 
feelings  or  think  aloud  for  our  information.  Neither  way  is 
necessary.  The  author's  comment  may  interrupt,  and  his 
character's  soliloquy  may  disconcert.  Since  sane  people 
do  not  commonly  talk  to  themselves  or  think  aloud,  this 
device  is  likely  to  seem  artificial,  to  remind  us  that  we  are 
after  all  only  reading,  to  break  the  spell.  And  in  most 
cases  it  is  as  unnecessary  as  it  is  feeble.  With  practise, 
almost  any  story  can  be  told  throughout  narratively.  The 
information  necessary  to  clearness  can  be  hinted  in  the  action 
and  dialogue.  The  reader,  feeling  himself  in  the  same  posi- 
tion as  when  he  picks  up  clues  from  a  group  of  actors  in 
real  life,  has  more  of  the  excitement  and  pleasure  of  dis- 
covery and  more  of  the  feeling  of  participation.  Of  course, 
the  writer  must  make  sure  that  the  clues  are  clear.  This 
is  more  difficult  than  to  play  the  part  of  officious  bystander 
or  to  make  the  actors  stop  acting  while  they  explain  them- 
selves; but  it  is  not  beyond  even  amateur  skill,  and  it  adds" 
to  the  zest  of  writing  as  well  as  of  reading.  A  story  thus 
becomes  an  interesting  economy,  in  which  every  act,  every 
word,  every  gesture,  is  significant,  in  which  nothing  insignifi- 
cant hinders  the  course. 

a.   LIMITING  THE  TIME   OF  ACTION 

The  problem  of  making  a  story  all  story  is  felt  most  keenly 
in  narrative  openings.  How  to  take  hold  promptly,  clearly, 
and  significantly  is  a  problem  fresh  for  every  story  and  al- 
ways demanding  ingenuity.  Tales,  and  especially  exempla 
(page  196),  ancient  and  modern,  usually  give  it  up  by  putting 
all  the  necessary  information  into  an  introduction.  But  in- 
troductions are  not  only  imfashionable;  they  have  the  two 
inherent  defects  of  failing  to  arouse  curiosity  at  the  start 


WEAVING  IN  223 

and  of  necessitating  a  break.  Our  feeling  that  whatever 
properly  belongs  to  the  story  should  be  in  the  story,  not 
partly  outside,  is  the  desire  to  be  under  the  narrative  spell 
from  the  beginning.  A  story  that  does  not  promise  this 
spell  in  its  first  words  runs  the  risk  of  being  passed  by.  That 
is  why,  in  a  day  that  offers  stories  by  the  hundred,  most 
stories  claim  attention  by  beginning  with  action  or  dialogue. 
What,  then,  of  the  events  before  the  chosen  series  of  crit- 
ical actions  that  constitute  the  story  proper?  They  are  to 
be  woven  in  as  hints.  The  action  suggests  them  while  it 
moves  on;  the  characters  refer  to  them  in  conversation 
without  ceasing  to  reveal  their  immediate  concerns.  How 
much  of  this  is  necessary?  Though  there  can  be  no  fixed 
proportion,  the  first  answer  to  the  amateur  is,  Less  than  you 
think.  The  larger  answer  is  that  before  considering  in  de- 
tail how  to  begin,  the  writer  had  better  decide  when  to  begin. 
Generally  the  point  of  beginning  should  be  as  late  as  is 
possible  without  omitting  any  action  that  is  immediately 
significant.  The  advice  to  begin  ''in  the  middle"  means 
practically  to  begin  in  the  thick.  By  having  his  attention 
fixed  on  that  comparatively  brief  period  in  which  events 
come  to  a  head,  the  reader  Uving  through  this  in  imagination 
will  readily  understand  all  that  he  needs  of  what  happened 
before  and  after.  People  who  insist  on  beginning  at  the 
beginning  forget  that  there  is  no  beginning.  Our  fives 
are  so  commingled  and  crossed,  events  are  derived  from 
causes  so  remote,  that  if  we  are  too  anxious  to  begin  at 
the  beginning  our  readers  may  move  away  before  we  have 
fairly  started.  The  very  object  of  telling  a  story  is  to 
isolate  from  the  throng  of  happenings  something  highly 
significant  by  itself.  In  order  to  heighten  its  significance, 
to  express  its  distinct  emotion,  the  narrator  omits  all  that  is 
distracting,  compresses  and  subordinates  all  that  is  merely 
explanatory,  and  especially  limits  the  time  and  place.    Life 


224       THE  TECHNIC  OF  NARRATIVE  MOVEMENT 

goes  on  without  pause.  In  history,  in  the  daily  news- 
papers, in  experience,  it  unrolls  thousands  of  stories  all 
tangled  together.  The  story-teller's  art  is  to  pick  out  one 
story  at  a  time  by  discerning  its  crises,  and  to  make  it 
stand  out  by  itself  without  leaning  heavily  on  the  past. 

All  this  is  applied  habitually  to  the  short  story,  which  is 
the  extreme  example  of  the  narrative  method  of  interpreta- 
tion by  isolation;  but  in  general  it  applies  also  to  longer 
stories.  They  too  remove  clogs  of  superfluous  coroment 
and  close  imnecessary  breaks,  in  order  to  provide  an  imin- 
terrupted  series  of  significant  actions.  How  much  further 
they  should  limit  time  and  place  depends  in  each  case  on 
the  importance  of  single  impression  and  rapid  movement. 
Generally  these  are  less  important  in  a  long  story;  for  there 
the  spell  may  be  broken  and  resumed  again  and  again. 
Novels  are  not  usually  read  through  at  a  sitting;  nor  can 
attention  be  long  held  to  a  focus.  Moreover  a  long  story 
may  gain  less  by  intensity  than  by  fulness  (page  205) ;  and 
unity  of  impression  is  less  important  for  the  whole  than  for 
each  single  scene  or  chapter.  In  any  case,  the  device  of 
limiting  time  and  place  is  never  worth  while,  even  for  a  short 
story,  if  it  squeezes  out  those  actions  in  which  the  reader 
naturally  desires  to  participate.  If  such  actions  are  merely 
hinted  or  reported,  the  reader  will  be  left  unsatisfied.  It 
is  far  better  to  extend  the  time  or  shift  the  scene  of  action 
than  to  omit  a  suggestive  crisis. 

h.  DIALOGUE 

For  weaving  in  narratively  what  must  be  included,  the 
commonest  device  is  dialogue.  While  it  helps  the  illusion 
of  actuahty  and  reveals  the  appearance,  mood,  and  character 
of  the  speakers,  it  may  also  give  the  necessary  hints  of  what 
has  happened  before  or  is  happening  elsewhere.  The  swift 
opening  of  The  Ancient  Mariner  uses  dialogue  to  weave  in: 


WEAVING  IN  225 

(1)  the  occasion,  (2)  the  description  of  the  mariner,  both  in 
physical  details  and  still  more  in  the  imcanny  and  compelling 
effect  of  his  personaUty,  and  (3)  the  mood  of  each  speaker 
and  its  contrast  with  the  scene.  A  device  common  in  ballads, 
from  which  Coleridge  learned  it,  and  used,  though  less  skil- 
fully, even  in  fairy  stories,  dialogue  is  one  of  the  surest  means 
of  narrative  rapidity.  It  is  economically  suggestive,  both 
revealing  and  stimulating,  doing  two  things  at  once.  In 
this  it  is  typical  of  the  whole  narrative  method  of  weaving 
in  by  interaction.  Instead  of  explaining  causes  historically 
or  psychologically,  we  exhibit  effects  in  the  action  of  one 
person  on  another.  The  antecedent  action  and  the  charac- 
ters of  the  actors  are  thus  neither  summarized  nor  discussed; 
they  are  expressed  directly,  as  it  were  before  our  eyes  and 
ears.  There  is  no  line  between  past  and  present,  between 
character  and  plot.  All  that  is  vital  is  combined  in  con- 
tinuous movement.  Thus  the  technic  of  narrative  move- 
ment consists  largely  in  avoiding  non-conductors,  in  providing 
direct  contacts. 

A  typical  instance  of  this  economy  is  the  opening  of 
Stevenson's  Beach  of  Falesd. 

I  saw  that  island  first  when  it  was  neither  night  nor  morning. 
The  moon  was  to  the  west,  setting,  but  still  broad  and  bright.  To 
the  east,  and  right  amidships  of  the  dawn,  which  was  all  pink,  the 
daystar  sparkled  like  a  diamond.  The  land  breeze  blew  in  our 
faces,  and  smelt  strong  of  wild  lime  and  vanilla:  other  things 
besides,  but  these  were  the  most  plain;  and  the  chill  of  it  set  me 
sneezing.  I  should  say  I  had  been  for  years  on  a  low  island  near 
the  line,  living  for  the  most  part  solitary  among  natives.  Here 
was  a  fresh  experience:  even  the  tongue  would  be  quite  strange  to 
me;  and  the  look  of  these  woods  and  mountains,  and  the  rare 
smell  of  them,  renewed  my  blood. 

The  captain  blew  out  the  binnacle  lamp. 

"There!"  said  he,  "there  goes  a  bit  of  smoke,  Mr.  Wiltshire, 
behind  the  break  of  the  reef.    That's  Falesa,  where  your  station 


226        THE  TECH  NIC  OF  NARRATIVE  MOVEMENT 

is,  the  last  village  to  the  east  —  nobody  lives  to  windward  — 
I  don't  know  why.  Take  my  glass,  and  you  can  make  the 
house  out." 

I  took  the  glass;  and  the  shores  leaped  nearer,  and  I  saw  the 
tangle  of  the  woods  and  the  breach  of  the  surf;  and  the  brown 
roofs  and  the  black  insides  of  houses  peeped  among  the  trees. 

"Do  you  catch  a  bit  of  white  there  to  the  east'ard?"  the  cap- 
tain continued,  "That's  your  house.  Coral  built,  stands  high, 
veranda  you  could  walk  on  three  abreast;  best  station  in  the  South 
Pacific.  When  old  Adams  saw  it,  he  took  and  shook  me  by  the 
hand.  'I've  dropped  into  a  soft  thing  here,'  says  he.  —  'So  you 
have,'  says  I,  'and  time  too.'  Poor  Johnny!  I  never  saw  him 
again  but  the  once,  —  and  then  he  had  changed  his  tune,  — 
couldn't  get  on  with  the  natives,  or  the  whites,  or  something;  and 
the  next  time  we  came  around  he  was  dead  and  buried.  I  took 
and  put  up  a  bit  of  stick  to  him:  'John  Adams,  obit  eighteen  and 
sixty-eight.  Go  thou  and  do  likewise.'  I  missed  that  man.  I 
never  could  see  much  harm  in  Johnny." 

"What  did  he  die  of?"  I  inquired. 

"Some  kind  of  sickness,"  says  the  captain.  "It  appears  it  took 
him  sudden.  Seems  he  got  up  in  the  night,  and  filled  up  on  Pain- 
Killer  and  Kennedy's  Discovery.  No  go;  he  was  booked  beyond 
Kennedy.  Then  he  had  tried  to  open  a  case  of  gin.  No  go  again: 
not  strong  enough.  Then  he  must  have  turned  to  and  run  out  on 
the  veranda,  and  capsized  over  the  rail.  When  they  found  him, 
the  next  day,  he  was  clean  crazy  —  carried  on  all  the  time  about 
some  one  watering  his  copra.    Poor  John." 

"Was  it  thought  to  be  the  island?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  it  was  thought  to  be  the  island,  or  the  trouble,  or  some- 
thing," he  repHed.  "I  never  could  hear  but  what  it  was  a  healthy 
place.  Our  last  man.  Vigours,  never  turned  a  hair.  He  left  be- 
cause of  the  beach  —  said  he  was  afraid  of  Black  Jack  and  Case 
and  Whistling  Jimmie,  who  was  still  aUve  at  the  time,  but  got 
drowned  soon  afterward  when  drunk.  As  for  old  Captain  Randall, 
he's  been  here  any  time  since  eighteen-forty,  forty-five.  I  could 
never  see  much  harm  in  Billy,  nor  much  change.  Seems  as  if  he 
might  live  to  be  as  old  as  Kafoozleum.    No  I  guess  it's  healthy." 


WEAVING  IN  227 

"There's  a  boat  coming  now,"  said  I.  "She's  right  in  the  pass; 
looks  to  be  a  sixteen-foot  whale;  two  white  men  in  the  stern-sheets." 

"That's  the  boat  that  drowned  Whistling  Jimmie,"  cried  the 
captain;  "let's  see  the  glass.  Yes,  that's  Case,  sure  enough,  and 
the  darkie.  They've  got  a  gallows  bad  reputation,  but  you  know 
what  a  place  the  beach  is  for  talking." 


CHAPTER  VI 
DRAMATIC   MOVEMENT 

I.   MOVEMENT  REPRESENTED    TO    SPECTATORS 

The  term  drama,  like  the  term  story,  is  very  wide,  includ- 
ing not  only  tragedy,  comedy,  and  melodrama,  but  also 
pantomime,  pageantry,  opera,  and  film  plays.  Nevertheless 
it  has  in  all  these  forms  the  constant  and  distinguishing 
characteristic  of  actual  representation.  All  drama  differs 
from  all  story  in  being  represented.  To  speak  of  a  drama 
as  a  story  told  on  the  stage  is  to  speak  loosely.  A  drama 
usually,  indeed,  has  a  story,  and  the  story  is  told  in  so  far 
as  it  is  uttered  in  words;  but  some  forms  of  drama  dispense 
with  words,  others  make  words  subsidiary,  and  all  forms  of 
drama  have  for  their  primary  object,  not  to  tell,  but  to  show. 
The  methods  of  story-telling  are  methods  of  suggestion 
(page  160);  those  of  drama,  methods  of  representation. 
To  say  that  a  story  is  dramatic  implies  that  its  suggestion 
approaches  representation,  as  in  being  partly  acted  by  the 
narrator,  or  that  its  situations  would  be  more  impressive 
if  actually  represented. 

In  this  regard  situations  otherwise  equally  interesting 
differ  widely.  Arnold's  decision  to  betray  the  cause  of  the 
American  colonies  is  a  significant  crisis,  as  is  Lincoln's  de- 
cision to  declare  the  emancipation  of  the  negro  slaves,  or, 
in  fiction,  Henry  Esmond's  to  renounce  the  Pretender;  but 
whereas  the  last  would  conceivably  be  enhanced  by  actually 
representing  on  the  stage  the  scene  in  which  Esmond  breaks 
his  sword,  the  two  former  would  gain  nothing.     The  one 

228 


DRAMATIC  MOVEMENT  229 

could  be  effectively  represented;  the  other  two  could  not. 
Haman  coming  in  his  pride  before  King  Ahasuerus  {Esther  vi) 
to  contrive  the  ruin  of  the  Jews,  and  bidden  to  honor  the 
Jew  Mordecai,  is  a  situation  interesting  to  read  or  hear,  but 
much  more  significant  if  seen.  We  should  like  to  see  Haman's 
face  and  attitude;  and  an  actor  would  like  Haman  as  a  part. 
The  dialogue  between  Haman  and  the  king,  in  which  neither 
comprehends  the  drift  of  the  other,  while  we,  comprehending 
both,  are  all  agog  for  the  issue,  would  be  much  more  striking 
on  the  stage.  The  emotions  are,  indeed,  conveyed  by  sug- 
gestive telling;  but  they  would  be  far  more  impressive  in 
visible  expression.  By  dramatic,  then,  we  mean  primarily 
significant  to  enact,  and  to  see  enacted,  in  the  theater.  A 
situation  is  not  promising  for  drama  unless  its  significance 
would  be  enhanced  by  representation. 

This  difference  is  plain  in  situations  actually  chosen  for 
dramatization.  The  medieval  composers  who  devised  the 
so-called  miracle  plays  (page  232)  were  not  free  to  choose 
for  values  purely  dramatic;  they  felt  themselves  bound  to 
include  some  situations  which,  though  important  narratively, 
were  tedious  or  obscure  on  the  stage.  In  vivid  contrast  to 
these  are  certain  crises  which  by  sheer  dramatic  virtue  be- 
came, even  in  hands  so  inexpert,  strongly  moving.  Abra- 
ham's leading  of  his  son  Isaac  to  the  altar  of  sacrifice  was 
dramatic  essentially  in  that  the  emotions  of  father  and  son 
became  much  more  poignant,  however  crude  the  lines,  by 
being  enacted.  The  mere  process  of  enaction  warped  other 
scenes  from  their  original  intention.  The  refusal  of  Noah's 
wife  to  enter  the  ark  must  have  become  comic  merely  by 
being  acted ;  and  in  time  it  came  to  supply  in  the  traditional 
series  of  scenes  a  regular  interlude  of  comedy.  Similarly 
the  visual  effects  of  the  part  of  Satan  on  the  stage  turned 
his  malignity  into  mischief  and  made  the  Devil  tradition- 
ally a  comic  character.     The  actual  effects  of  a  play  being 


230     MOVEMENT  REPRESENTED  TO  SPECTATORS 

primarily  and  fundamentally  visual,  the  first  task  of  play- 
writing  is  to  insure  visual  values. 

This  means  that  playwriting  is  less  the  writing  of  dialogue 
—  which,  indeed,  is  often  written  last  and  always  revised 
after  the  play  has  been  tried  on  the  stage  —  than  the  com- 
position of  action,  stage  business,  and  even  grouping  and 
pose.  But  it  means  something  deeper.  The  emotions  that 
are  thus  enhanced  by  representation  before  a  crowd  are 
typically  such  as  are  best  felt  by  the  crowd  together,  such 
as  are  commimal.  A  drama  is  a  composition  interesting 
for  an  audience  to  see  in  the  further  sense  that  the  seeing 
of  it  draws  the  audience  together  in  a  common  emotion. 
Witness  the  perennial  popularity  of  history  plays.  Indeed, 
the  merit  of  a  play  is  fairly  measured  by  this  drawing  of 
the  audience  together.  A  play  is  made,  not  primarily  to 
be  read  by  individuals,  though  it  may  also  be  read  with 
interest,  but  to  be  seen  by  a  crowd.  This  is  the  main  object 
of  all  its  composition. 

Far  earlier  than  professional  dramatic  composition,  and 
far  wider,  is  the  history  of  drama.  Drama  has  arisen  again 
and  again  spontaneously  from  the  natural  love  of  acting. 
Many  children's  games  are  dramatic;  and  many  are  centuries 
old.  Centuries  old  also  is  Punch  and  Judy,  and  well-nigh 
universal.  To  act  oneself  and  to  cooperate  in  the  acting 
of  others  is  a  tendency  so  old  and  so  wide-spread  as  to  seem 
almost  Hke  an  instinct.^  In  earlier  civilizations  this  in- 
stinct for  acting  was  applied  to  certain  popular  observances 
of  religion.  Greek  drama  began  in  the  rites  celebrated 
annually  by  the  whole  village  to  honor  Dionysus,  the  god 
of  fertility  and  enthusiasm.  In  the  shouting,  singing  chorus 
there  were  at  first  no  actors  in  the  modem  sense;  but  that 
was  because  in  a  broader  sense  all  were  actors.     There  was 

^This  paragraph  and  the  three  following  are  adapted  from  the 
author's  Writing  and  Speaking,  pages  412-415. 


DRAMATIC  MOVEMENT  231 

rude,  impromptu  mimic  action,  as  in  "So  the  farmer  sows 
his  seed"  and  similar  games.  There  was  probably  a  good 
deal  of  improvised  verse  by  individuals,  and  probably  a  good 
deal  of  recurring  refrain  by  the  whole  crowd.  Out  of  this 
communal  impersonation  at  the  vintage  of  the  story  of 
Dionysus  grew  very  naturally  individual  impersonations  of 
the  god  and  his  more  prominent  mjrthical  attendants,  the 
crowd  responding  with  impromptu  variations  of  the  familiar 
refrain.  Every  crowd  produces  a  leader.  The  leader  of  the 
Greek  chorus  became  an  actor  in  the  modern  sense  of  taking 
a  fixed  part.  In  time  other  fixed  parts  were  assigned  to  indi- 
viduals, till  the  mimic  action  had  a  definite  dialogue;  but  the 
chorus  persisted  as  representative  of  the  whole  community. 

Then,  as  always,  came  the  individual  genius  to  discern 
the  capacity  of  what  had  been  wrought  by  the  people,  to 
reveal  and  enlarge  that  capacity,  and  to  fix  a  great  form  of 
art.  JEschylus,  and  after  him  Sophocles  and  Euripides, 
shaped  the  drama  to  express  the  ideals  of  the  Greek  race 
and  their  own  individual  genius;  but  it  always  remained 
answerable  to  its  original  popular  impulse.  The  Greek 
throng  upon  the  open  seats  of  the  theater  imder  the  clear 
sky  during  the  great  period  of  Greek  drama  felt,  not  only 
that  the  chorus  chanting  in  the  orchestra  represented  them, 
but  that  they  themselves  were  assisting  at  a  communal 
celebration.  The  drama  was  always  the  enactment  of  their 
mythology  or  history,  known  to  every  spectator  by  heart. 
It  was  always  judged  sternly,  not  only  by  its  poetic  beauty, 
but  by  its  faithfulness  to  their  beliefs  and  their  feelings. 
Its  success  was  measured  by  the  feeling  of  the  community. 

So  in  medieval  France  and  England,  in  a  society  quite 
different  otherwise,  indeed,  but  similar  in  communal  reli- 
gious observance  and  in  general  ignorance  of  reading, 
arose  the  modern  drama.  The  medieval  conmaunity  center 
was  the  church;   and  the  drama  arose  from  the  communal 


232     MOVEMENT  REPRESENTED  TO  SPECTATORS 

observance  of  the  great  annual  Church  festiv^^ls.  "Whom 
seek  ye?"  came  the  thriUing  chant  at  Easter,  when  the  whole 
village  or  city  district  would  be  gathered  in  the  parish 
church.  And  then,  in  further  response,  "He  is  not  here; 
He  is  risen."  To  make  this  interlude  more  impressive,  the 
clergy  had  it  chanted  responsively  by  singers  impersonating 
the  angel  and  the  women.  So  at  Christmas  there  were 
responses  of  the  angels  and  the  shepherds.  These  so  effect- 
ively answered  the  popular  feeling  that  in  time  other  scenes 
from  the  sacred  history  were  thus  recited;  the  custom 
passed  out  of  the  church;  and  the  whole  town,  through  its 
trade  unions,  maintained  an  annual  series  of  dramatic 
representations,  setting  all  the  main  scenes  of  the  Bible. 
Each  scene,  provided  by  a  separate  gild,  was  mounted  on 
a  cart  and  drawn  through  the  market-place  before  the 
church,  where  the  spectators  were  assembled  in  the  open 
air.  Miracles  these  series  were  called,  as  representing  the 
most  dramatic  scenes  of  Revelation;  or  mysteries,  as  repre- 
senting the  supernatural  truths  of  the  creed.  As  the  sep- 
arate scenes  were  represented  and  combined  with  better  skill, 
they  opened  the  way  for  other  representations  of  dramatic 
scenes  from  history,  and  so  for  the  predecessors  of  Shak- 
spere.  From  the  beginning,  then,  modern  drama  also  was 
a  popular  performance,  developed  in  response  to  a  popular 
demand,  and  always  answerable  to  the  people. 

In  both  the  ancient  development  and  the  modem,  mark 
that  the  drama  was  there  before  it  was  written,  before 
there  was  any  thought  of  writing  it.  The  drama  is  primarily, 
not  a  literary  product,  but  a  popular  product.  It  began, 
not  as  something  written  by  a  man  of  letters  and  then  acted 
before  the  people,  but  as  something  acted  by  the  people 
and  only  afterward  written  down  for  preservation.  In 
spite  of  all  differences  of  time  and  race,  drama  has  always 
depended,  more  than  any  other  form  of  composition  except 


DRAMATIC  MOVEMENT  233 

oratory,  upon  immediate  appeal  to  the  people.  Romance 
and  lyric  may  be  enjoyed  by  oneself  apart;  but  epic  and 
drama  are  communal.  Epic  grew  out  of  the  hero-songs  of 
the  clan;  drama,  out  of  the  choral  celebration  of  the  village. 
Since  epic  early  passed  out  of  popular  life,  drama  has  been 
for  centuries  the  only  form  of  literature  that  people  can 
enjoy  together.  What  spectators  as  a  crowd  can  watch 
with  sympathetic  interest,  and  feel  some  share  in  —  that  is 
properly  called  dramatic. 


II.  MOVEMENT  REPRESENTED  BY  ACTION 

From  the  fundamental  necessity  for  visual  significance 
springs  the  necessity  on  the  stage  for  continuous  action. 
Spectators  in  the  theater  wish  to  see  the  actors  doing  some- 
thing, not  merely  describing  or  explaining,  but  acting.  The 
actor,  on  his  side,  finds  his  part  good  when  its  characteriza- 
tion is  so  composed  as  to  be  good  not  merely  to  say  and  to 
hear,  but  to  do  and  to  see.  This  does  not  mean  that  the 
action  on  the  stage  must  be  bustling,  or  even  rapid,  but  that 
it  should  be  the  constant  method  of  unfolding  the  play. 
For  drama,  though  it  includes  spectacle,  is  something  more. 
Though  scenery  is  no  less  visible  than  action,  its  interest  for 
a  crowd  can  never  be  so  keen  nor  so  continuous.  Properly 
it  is  a  background  devised  to  Uberate  the  action  from  all 
description  and  to  give  salience.  It  is  subsidiary,  not  pri- 
mary, still  less  necessary.  On  the  Greek  stage  scenery  was 
meager  and  mainly  typical  or  symbolic.  On  the  Elizabethan 
stage  also  it  consisted  of  such  mere  hints  as  could  be  supplied 
by  an  inner  curtain  and  a  little  typical  furniture.  Recent 
revivals  of  Elizabethan  plays  in  the  Elizabethan  manner 
have  demonstrated  that  modern  audiences,  though  accus- 
tomed to  scenic  elaboration,  find  keen  dramatic  enjoy- 
ment  in   mere    action.     To    conclude   that   modern  plays 


234  MOVEMENT  REPRESENTED  BY  ACTION 

should  be  presented  without  scenery  would  be  as  absurd 
as  to  return  from  electric  light  to  candles.  We  should  of 
course  use  all  our  dramatic  means;  and  one  of  these  means 
is  scenery.  Far  from  being  abandoned,  scenery  should  be 
made  to  tell  all  it  can.  But  it  is  dramatic  only  when  it  is 
thus  contributory,  not  when  it  is  only  beautiful  or  ingenious, 
still  less  when  it  is  elaborate,  least  of  all  when  it  is  distract- 
ing. Pageantry  and  other  forms  of  stage  spectacle  which 
rely  most  on  scenery  rely  also  on  the  massing  of  large  groups. 
Intended  for  a  large  stage,  and  most  effective  out  of  doors, 
they  shift  the  emphasis  from  the  individual  actors  to  mass 
effects  and  choruses,  and  offer  rather  a  sucession  of  tab- 
leaux, dances,  and  music  than  a  play.  It  is  no  disparage- 
ment of  these  broad  effects  to  say  that  they  are  less  intensely 
dramatic,  or  rather  that  any  stage  representation  gives  that 
particular  pleasure  which  we  call  dramatic  in  proportion  as 
it  moves  by  the  actions  of  individual  actors.  And  prac- 
tically playwriting,  as  distinct  from  pageantry,  consists  fun- 
damentally in  devising  a  steady  and  increasingly  significant 
course  of  action. 


III.  MOVEMENT  REPRESENTED  BY 
INTERACTION 

The  persons  of  a  play,  as  those  of  a  story,  are  revealed, 
not  only  by  what  they  say  and  do  for  themselves,  but  by 
the  effects  of  this  on  the  other  persons  and  by  the  effects  of 
the  other  persons  on  them.  On  the  stage  this  interaction 
is  more  important  than  in  a  story.  In  a  story  it  is  a  means 
of  movement  (page  188);  in  a  play  it  is  the  means.  No 
person  on  the  stage  can  be  left  at  any  time  without  something 
to  do  or  say  which  will  indicate  his  reaction  to  what  is  then 
going  on.  If  he  is  to  be  in  that  scene  at  all,  his  being  there 
must  visibly  add  to  its  significance;    he  must  constantly, 


DRAMATIC  MOVEMENT  235 

whether  by  speech,  action,  or  attitude,  share  in  the  common 
action.  That  he  must  have  his  part  does  not  mean  merely 
that  he  must  come  forward  now  and  again  to  the  center  of 
attention;  he  may  even  be  most  of  the  time  in  the  back- 
ground; but  it  does  mean  that  whatever  anybody  does  or 
says  must  have  its  visible  effect  on  everybody  else.  One 
of  the  most  strikingly  dramatic  moments  in  the  play  of 
King  Oedipus  as  acted  is  the  effect  on  Jocasta  (line  1020)  of 
the  dialogue  between  the  king  and  the  stranger  from  Corinth. 
Yet  at  the  moment  Jocasta  does  not  say  a  word.  The  effect 
is  altogether  by  ''business."  On  the  stage  no  one  must  be 
forgotten  in  a  comer.  The  commonest  challenge  of  the 
actors  to  the  forgetful  amateur  playwright  is,  "What  am  I 
supposed  to  be  doing  now?"  This  is  the  reason  for  the  full 
stage  directions  in  a  prompt-book.  Whether  provided  in 
advance  by  the  playwright,  or  revised  or  filled  in  by  the 
manager  or  the  actors,  they  account  for  everybody  on 
the  stage  at  the  time.  "Crosses  L."  "Comes  down  C." 
"Turns  her  back  and  leans  against  the  table."  "Hesi- 
tates in  the  doorway."  "Starts  to  speak,  but  sinks  back, 
trembling."  —  such  stage  directions  indicate  the  constant 
need  of  interaction  even  where  the  person  has  no  lines.^ 
The  fact  that  such  indications  of  stage  "business"  are  some- 
times overdone,  sometimes  so  over-anxious  as  to  hinder 
instead  of  helping  the  actors,  should  not  blind  an  amateur 
plajrwright  to  the  necessity  of  visualizing  every  scene  as 
an  interaction.  A  scene  is  not  ready  for  actors  until  the 
author  has  imagined,  and  usually  indicated,  not  only  every 
line  to  be  spoken,  but  everybody's  action  and  "business," 
even  to  "crossings"  and  gestures. 

The  dramatic  habit  of  interaction  is  seen  best,  of  course, 
in  the  great  scenes  of  great  plays.    The  famous  screen  scene 

*  The  reference  is  to  the  prompt-book  for  actual  representation,  not 
to  the  form  published  for  reading. 


236    MOVEMENT  REPRESENTED  BY  INTERACTION 

in  the  School  for  Scandal  affects  visibly  every  person  on  the 
stage.  One  of  the  most  exciting  scenes^  in  Shakspere  is 
that  turning-point  in  Othello  where  lago,  having  intoxicated 
Cassio,  pushes  Roderigo  off  to  sound  the  alarm,  intervenes 
hypocritically  in  the  brawl,  and  turns  in  mock  shame  to 
meet  the  dignitj^  of  Othello's  anger.  Each  character  is  en- 
hanced by  being  set  off  against  the  others;  and  the  action 
involves  all.  So  the  passion  of  Lear's  summons  to  Regan 
slackens,  then  rises  at  Gloucester's  compassionate  excuses, 
swerves  at  the  liberation  of  Kent,  beats  in  full  flood  against 
Regan's  hard  reply,  and  foams  away  in  madness  on  the 
arrival  of  Goneril. 

Such  using  of  the  dramatis  personce  constantly  against 
one  another  makes  dramatic  characterization  ampler  and 
sharper  than  is  possible  through  the  suggestions  of  story. 
Narrative  cannot  attain  the  distinctness  of  characterization 
possible  to  drama.  Not  only  is  the  person  before  us  on  the 
stage  in  flesh  and  blood,  but  his  sympathizers  and  antago- 
nists are  there  too,  to  interpret  his  action  and  enhance  his 
mood.  ReaHzation  of  this  typical  opportunity  of  the  stage 
to  present  persons  may  suffice  in  itself,  and  with  little  other 
dramatic  interest,  to  make  an  acceptable  play.  A  part 
cannot,  indeed,  be  played  alone;  but  so  long  as  there  is  plot 
enough  to  provide  interaction,  the  play  may  prevail  by  the 
fundamental  interest  of  characterization.  In  this  aspect 
playwriting  may  be  said  to  be  measured  by  the  ability 
to  write  parts;  and  a  play  is  estimated  by  an  actor  primarily 
as  providing  good  parts. 

But  the  idea  of  characterization  by  interaction  reaches 
far  enough  to  suggest  also  another  fundamental  of  dramatic 
plot.  What  we  especially  enjoy  seeing  unfolded  before  us 
on  the  stage,  what  is  more  vividly  significant  on  the  stage 
than  in  a  story,  is  the  action  of  will  on  will,  personalities  in 
*  Quoted  in  part  below,  §  V. 


MOVEMENT  BY  SCENES  237 

struggle.  The  Book  of  Esther  is  potentially  a  drama  be- 
cause of  the  clash  of  Haman  and  Mordecai.  As  the  tissue 
of  drama  is  the  action  of  persons  on  one  another,  so  its  main 
nerve  is  a  conflict  of  wills,  and  this  indicates  the  kind  of 
movement  that  is  typically  dramatic.  lago's  seduction  of 
Othello  is  the  main  line  of  action  by  which  successively  Cassio 
is  betrayed,  Desdemona  killed,  and  Othello  ruined.  This 
motive  of  jealousy,  working  out  in  strong  and  subtle  inter- 
action among  all  the  main  persons,  determines  a  clear 
onward  course.  Dramatic  movement,  or  plot,  springs  from 
dramatic  motive,  or  characterization.  So  Cassius  makes 
the  ambition  of  Caesar  work  upon  the  patriotism  of  Brutus 
until  both  alike  are  thwarted  by  the  policy  of  Antony.  The 
plot  of  a  play  is  the  development  of  human  will  through 
struggle.  This  is  obvious  in  tragedy;  but  it  is  true  also  of 
comedy.  In  either,  what  we  most  enjoy  in  the  theater  is 
the  realization  and  the  solution  of  some  conflict  of  wills. 


IV.  MOVEMENT  BY  SCENES 

So  a  dramatic  scene  is  typically  a  crisis  of  interaction,  a 
situation  in  which  the  persons  of  the  play  bring  out  one 
another.  A  play  is  not  a  procession  of  characters  sirgly 
or  in  pairs;  it  is  a  succession  of  groups.  A  scene,  in  other 
words,  is  a  grouping  of  persons  by  interaction  to  bring  out 
a  distinct  emotional  significance.  Thus  the  French  habit  of 
marking  as  a  separate  scene  whatever  follows  the  entrance 
or  exit  of  one  of  the  important  persons  is  not  merely  con- 
ventional. Dramatic  action  goes  on  steadily;  but  each 
entrance  or  exit  marks  a  distinct  stage.  Each  scene  is  at 
once  distinct  for  itself  and  significant  for  the  onward  course. 
Now  Mercutio  is  dead;  so  gallant  and  strong  a  young  life 
has  been  sacrificed  to  the  fatal  feud;  the  interaction  has 
been  woven  to  a  distinct  issue.    But  the  emotion  is  no  more 


238  MOVEMENT  BY  SCENES 

distinct  than  significant;  something  must  come  of  this  at 
once;  Romeo  is  involved,  and  so  JuHet;  love  is  crossed  by 
hate;  the  action  thickens  and  darkens  toward  the  final 
tragedy.  This  scene,  then,  is  typically  dramatic.  On  the 
one  hand,  it  rouses  emotion  for  itself  immediately;  it  needs 
no  more  comment  than  the  scene  in  which  Isaac  says  to 
Abraham,  ''Behold  the  fire  and  the  wood;  but  where  is  the 
lamb  for  a  burnt  offering?"  (Genesis  xxii.  7):  on  the  other 
hand,  it  is  significant,  as  the  other  is,  for  the  further  progress; 
it  is  critical,  decisive,  determining. 

Plot,  the  composition  of  dramatic  movement,  consists 
essentially  in  writing  scene  by  scene;  and  the  task  of  writing 
a  scene  is  two-fold.  First,  the  scene  should  be  so  grouped 
that  interaction  will  bring  out  fully  its  particular  emotional 
values  of  pathos,  humor,  or  tragedy;  it  should  be  amplified 
and  rounded  for  itself,  or,  in  the  language  of  the  stage, 
played  up.  The  actors  should  have  time  and  means  to 
bring  their  parts  out.  Secondly,  the  scene  should  lead  on, 
should  close  so  significantly  as  to  rouse  our  interest  in  its 
further  outcome,  should,  as  actors  say,  hang  over.  For  the 
strength  of  the  dramatic  chain  depends  upon  the  strength 
of  each  link.  Typical  in  both  these  ways  is  the  mistaken 
denunciation  of  Creon  by  Oedipus  {King  Oedipus,  532-630). 
The  tension  is  increased  till  the  king  pronounces  not  merely 
banishment,  but  death.  Creon,  astounded  for  a  moment 
into  pleading,  is  outraged  to  resistance.^ 

Oedipus.    The  king  must  be  obeyed. 

Creon.  Not  if  the  king 

Does  evil. 
Oedipus.  To  your  king!    Ho,  Thebes,  mine  own! 

Creon.        Thebes  is  my  country,  not  the  king's  alone. 

*  The  quotation  is  from  the  translation  of  Gilbert  Murray,  Oxford 
University  Press,  1911. 


CLEARNESS  OF  DRAMATIC  MOVEMENT  239 

The  scene  culminates  with  the  two  men  facing  each  other, 
ready  to  fight.  Upon  this  enters  Jocasta;  and  her  entrance 
carries  the  action  into  a  new  stage. 

Obviously  there  is  a  likeness  in  this  respect,  though  not 
in  others,  to  composing  a  speech  or  essay  by  paragraphs. 
Logical  coherence  is  insured  by  such  planning  as  makes  each 
paragraph  a  distinct  stage  of  thought  (page  40),  and  by 
such  revision  as  makes  it  close  (page  51)  with  an  immis- 
takable  message.  The  coherence  of  the  whole  depends  on 
the  emphasis  of  each  paragraph;  and  the  more  important 
is  coherence,  the  more  important  is  paragraph  emphasis. 
Thus  in  argument  paragraph  emphasis  is  the  chief  technical 
means  of  cogency.  In  this  aspect  a  dramatic  scene  is  an 
emotional  paragraph,  distinct  for  itself  and  eloquent  for 
the  rest  of  the  play.  As  is  a  paragraph,  it  is  conceived  and 
blocked  out  in  scope  and  intention  before  it  is  cast  in  words; 
as  a  paragraph,  though  by  very  different  means,  it  must  be 
worked  up  amply,  developed  and  rounded;  as  a  paragraph, 
it  must  close  with  a  significance  so  clear  as  to  prepare  for 
what  is  to  follow.  Within  itself  a  scene  is  not  like  a  para- 
graph; it  is  developed  very  differently;  but  it  has  a  real  and 
instructive  likeness  in  that  it  is  a  unit  of  composition.  Plays 
are  written  by  scenes.  The  salience  of  the  mood  within 
the  scene  is  the  means  of  heightening  the  emotion  from  scene 
to  scene. 

1.  Clearness  of  Dramatic  Movement 

Demanding,  more  even  than  story-writing  demands  (page 
214),  sustained,  progressive,  and  accelerated  movement,  play- 
writing  moves  from  crisis  to  crisis  by  emotional  significances. 
But  the  emotion  cannot  be  strong  unless  first  it  is  clear. 
The  course  of  the  action  must  be  unmistakable;  the  audience 
must  never  be  left  in  doubt  as  to  the  meaning.  Though 
this  does  not  preclude  surprise,  an  audience,  far  more  than  a 


240  MOVEMENT  BY  SCENES 

solitary  reader,  likes  rather  to  guess  ahead,  to  know  more  at 
a  given  time  than  the  persons  on  the  stage,  and  at  the  end  to 
be,  not  shocked  or  mystified,  but  satisfied.  The  compelling 
force  of  King  Oedipus  is  enhanced  by  such  gradual  unfold- 
ing of  the  past  as  lets  the  spectators  know  at  each  point 
more  of  the  awful  revelation  than  is  grasped  by  the  persons 
on  the  stage.  Nor  does  the  fact  that  in  this  play,  as  in 
many  others  equally  famous,  the  whole  plot  was  known  in 
general  to  the  spectators  before  the  first  performance  lessen 
either  the  dramatic  interest  or  the  dramatic  necessity  of 
careful  preparation.  On  the  contrary,  such  disclosures  in 
advance  may  charge  subsequent  actions  and  speeches  with 
deeper  significance.  When  the  seer  Tiresias,  goaded  by  an 
accusation  at  once  perverse  and  natural,  retorts  to  the  in- 
dignant king,  ''Thou  art  thyself  the  unclean  thing"  (King 
Oedipus,  353),  the  situation  is  so  planned  that  though  he 
reveals  to  us  everything,  he  reveals  to  the  king  nothing. 
Our  knowing  all,  far  from  relaxing  our  interest,  enhances  it. 
Our  minds,  free  from  all  doubt  as  to  the  facts,  are  fixed 
on  the  progress  of  emotion.  Thus  the  pleasure  of  guessing 
ahead,  which  modem  story-writing  (page  220)  learned  from 
drama  to  give  even  to  readers,  is  provided  usually  on  the 
stage  with  greater  care  and  clearer  hints.  Whatever  in- 
formation is  necessary  to  full  understanding  of  a  situation 
not  only  may  be,  but  must  be  grasped  in  advance.  Often  it 
is  repeated,  lest  there  be  any  doubt.  This  supplying  of  the 
necessary  information  is  sometimes  called  exposition;  but 
its  methods,  of  course,  are  utterly  different  from  those  of 
the  discussions  that  go  by  that  name.  Dramatic  exposi- 
tion is  woven  into  the  action;  at  its  best  it  is  inseparable, 
the  lines  or  stage  business  conveying  both  information  and 
mood,  both  what  we  need  to  know  and  what  we  wish  to  feel, 
lago  bids  Roderigo  seek  a  quarrel  with  Cassio  (Othello, 
II.  i.  271).    The  conversation  prepares  us  to  grasp  the  sig- 


CONSTANCY  OF  DRAMATIC  MOVEMENT  241 

nificance  of  his  sudden  entrance  later,  and  meantime  adds 
to  the  characterization  of  both  speakers.  Desdemona,  pre- 
occupied by  her  soUcitude,  forgets  her  handkerchief  {Othello, 
III.  iii.  287).  We  see  it  fall  and  lie.  Emilia,  having 
picked  it  up,  reveals  in  the  following  dialogue  that  lago  had 
already  tried  to  get  it.  Wliy?  She  asks  the  question  for 
us;  but  we  know,  what  she  does  not,  that  the  purpose  must 
be  part  of  his  base  plot.  Seeing  him  snatch  and  keep  it,  we 
are  prepared  for  his  use  of  it  in  later  scenes.  When  Othello 
demands  it  of  Desdemona,  we  know  not  only  that  her  agita- 
tion is  entirely  imiocent,  but  that  her  danger  is  the  greater 
because  of  her  renewing  just  then  the  plea  for  Cassio. 
Techm'cally,  then,  the  problem  of  exposition  is  solved  by  so 
weaving  it  in  as  to  make  it  progressively  prepare  and  enhance. 

2.  Constancy  of  Dramatic  Movement 

a.   DRAMATIC   OPENING 

As  in  story,  one  of  the  chief  tasks  of  the  exposition  in 
drama  is  the  adjustment  of  the  opening.  To  make  the  open- 
ing action  rapid  enough  for  interest  and  yet  full  enough  for 
clearness,  to  open  at  once  the  past  and  the  future  on  the  stage 
of  the  present,  is  always  a  test  of  one's  technic.  That  every 
one  nowadays  derides  the  hackneyed  opening  in  which  the 
butler  and  the  parlor-maid,  or  the  gardener  and  the  cook, 
are  made  to  converse  for  the  sole  purpose  of  telling  the  audi- 
ence the  past  history  and  present  situation  of  the  family, 
shows  that  we  dislike  to  have  the  exposition  separated  in  a 
prologue,  just  as  we  dislike  to  have  a  story  prefaced  by  an 
introductoiy  lecture  (page  222).  Give  us  action  at  once, 
we  say;  you  ought  to  be  able  to  make  it  tell  itself.  For  as 
spectators  we  desire  the  illusion  of  assisting  in  the  action 
and  interpreting  for  ourselves.  In  order  to  create  this  illu- 
sion, a  modem  playwright  has  to  make  the  opening  action 
carry  information  while  it  arouses  expectation. 


242  MOVEMENT  BY  SCENES 

Even  so  brilliant  a  play  as  the  School  for  Scandal  is  slow 
and  halting  in  its  first  scenes.  The  opening  conversation, 
mordant  as  is  its  satire,  is  so  far  felt  to  be  after  all  only  a 
prologue  that  in  modem  performances  it  has  sometimes  been 
rearranged.  The  opening  of  Macbeth,  on  the  other  hand, 
which  on  the  page  looks  more  Uke  a  prologue,  is  actually 
more  dramatic  in  that  it  gives  not  only  the  key,  as  the  open- 
ing of  the  School  for  Scandal  does,  but  also  more  distinct 
premonition  of  the  action,  and  merges  into  that  action  more 
promptly.  Shakspere's  most  prompt  and  vivid  dramatic 
opening  is  in  Othello.  The  very  first  words  plunge  us  into 
the  thick  of  a  dispute  that  reveals  the  essentials  of  the  situa- 
tion. The  action,  beginning  at  once,  carries  the  exposition 
easily  without  either  slurring  or  pause.  As  quickly  as  fully 
the  past  is  made  unmistakably  clear.  We  know  it  from  the 
lips  of  all  the  main  persons  while  they  are  active  in  the  pres- 
ent crisis.  Othello's  narrative  in  the  senate,  for  instance, 
far  from  delajong,  actually  promotes  the  onward  dramatic 
movement. 

A  simpler  case  of  effective  dramatic  opening,  terse,  clear, 
and  prompt,  is  Sudermann's  Die  feme  Prinzessin} 

THE  FAR-AWAY  PRINCESS 

The  veranda  of  an  inn.  The  right  side  of  the  stage  and  half  of  the 
background  represent  a  framework  of  glass  enclosing  the  veranda.  The 
left  side  and  the  other  half  of  the  background  represent  the  stone  walls 
of  the  house.  To  the  left,  in  the  foreground,  a  door;  another  door  in  the 
background,  at  the  left.  On  the  left,  back,  a  buffet  and  serving-table. 
Neat  little  tables  and  smaU  iron  chairs  for  visitors  are  placed  about  the 
veranda.  On  the  right,  in  the  centre,  a  large  telescope,  standing  on  a 
tripod,  is  directed  through  an  open  windmo.    rosa  {the  waitress), 

*The  quotation  is  from  the  translation  of  Grace  Frank  in  Roses, 
Four  One-act  Plays  by  Hermann  Sudermann,  New  York,  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  1914,  page  141. 


CONSTANCY  OF  DRAMATIC  MOVEMENT  243 

dressed  in  the  costume  of  the  country,  is  arranging  flowers  on  the 
small  tables,  frau  lindemann  {the  landlady),  a  handsome,  stovtish 
woman  in  the  thirties,  hurries  in  excitedly  from  the  left. 

FRAU  LINDEMANN 

There!  Now  she  can  come  —  curtains,  bedding  —  ever5rthing 
fresh  and  clean  as  new!  No,  this  honor,  this  unexpected  honor  — ! 
Barons  and  counts  have  been  here  often  enough.  Even  the  Rus- 
sian princes  sometimes  come  up  from  the  Springs.  I  don't  bother 
my  head  about  them  —  they're  just  like  —  that! —  But  a  prin- 
cess —  a  real  princess! 

ROSA 

Perhaps  it  isn't  a  real  princess  after  all. 

FRAU  LINDEMANN  (indignatUly) 
What?   What  do  you  mean  by  that! 

ROSA 

I  was  only  thinking  that  a  real  princess  wouldn't  be  coming  to 
an  inn  like  this.  Real  princesses  won't  he  on  anything  but  silks 
and  velvets.    You  just  wait  and  see;  it's  a  trick! 

FRAU  LINDEMANN 

Are  you  going  to  pretend  that  the  letter  isn't  genuine;  —  that 
the  letter  is  a  forgery? 

ROSA 

Maybe  one  of  the  regular  customers  is  playing  a  joke.  That 
student,  Herr  Striibel,  he's  always  joking.    {Giggles.) 

FRAU   LINDEMANN 

When  Herr  Striibel  makes  a  joke,  he  makes  a  decent  joke,  a  real 
genuine  joke.  Oh,  of  course  one  has  to  pretend  to  be  angry  some- 
times —  but  as  for  writing  a  forged  letter  —  My  land!  —  a  letter 
with  a  gold  crown  on  it  —  there!  {She  takes  a  letter  from  her  waist, 
and  reads.)  "This  afternoon.  Her  Highness,  the  Princess  von  Gel- 
dern,  will  stop  at  the  Fairview  Inn,  to  rest  an  hour  or  so  before 


244  MOVEMENT  BY  SCENES 

making  the  descent  to  the  Springs.  You  are  requested  to  have 
ready  a  quiet  and  comfortable  room,  to  guard  Her  Highness  from 
any  annoying  advances,  and,  above  all,  to  maintain  the  strictest 
secrecy  regarding  this  event,  as  otherwise  the  royal  visit  will  not 
be  repeated.  Baroness  von  Brook,  maid  of  Honour  to  Her  High- 
ness."   Now,  what  have  you  got  to  say? 

ROSA 

Herr  Striibel  lent  me  a  book  once.  A  maid  of  honor  came  into 
that,  too.    I'm  sure  it's  a  trick. 

FRAu  LiNDEMANN  {looMng  ovt  toward  the  back) 

Dear,  dear,  isn't  that  Herr  Striibel  now,  coming  up  the  hill? 
To-day  of  all  days!    What  on  earth  does  he  always  want  up  here? 

ROSA  {pointedly) 

He's  in  such  favor  at  the  inn.  —  He  won't  be  leaving  here 
all  day. 

FRAU   LINDEMANN 

That  won't  do  at  all.  He's  got  to  be  sent  off.  If  I  only  knew 
how  I  could —  Oh,  ho!  I'll  be  disagreeable  to  him  —  that's  the 
only  way  to  manage  it! 

(sTRUBEL  enters.  He  is  a  handsome  young  fellow  withovt  much 
polish^  hut  cheerful,  unaffected,  entirely  at  his  ease,  and  invariably 
good-natured.) 

STRIJBEL 

Good  day,  everybody. 

h.  ''dramatic  unities'' 
Such  openings  depend,  of  course,  on  wise  limiting  of  the 
time  of  action  and  the  place  (page  222).  Limitation,  ex- 
cept in  the  quite  distinct  art  of  film-plays,  is  more  important 
than  in  story  because  of  the  actual  physical  limitations  of 
the  stage.  Effective  staging  demands  compression.  The 
movement  of  a  good  play,  though  never  hurried,  is  never 
halting  or  wandering.     A  play  cannot  range  so  freely  as  a 


CONSTANCY  OF  DRAMATIC  MOVEMENT  245 

story.  To  hold  interest  on  the  stage,  the  action  must  do 
without  pauses  and  mere  transitions,  must  be  pared  down, 
more  than  is  necessary  for  a  story,  to  crises.  The  bringing 
of  crises  together,  the  desire  for  constant  movement,  imder- 
lies  those  old  maxims,  once  hotly  disputed,  called  the  dramatic 
unities:  imity  of  time,  or  action  without  interruption,  as 
in  Greek  tragedy;  imity  of  place,  or  action  focused  on  a 
single  spot,  as  in  all  one-act  plays  and,  with  negligible  varia- 
tions, in  such  longer  plays  as  Bernstein's  Voleur,  Besier's 
Don,  Kenyon's  Kindling,  Mirbeau's  Les  Affaires  sont  les 
affaires;  unitj^  of  action,  or  action  subordinating  all  minor 
parts  to  a  single  main  course  that  is  clearly  dominant. 

That  the  dramatic  unities  are  not  necessary  to  dramatic 
effectiveness  is  evident  from  the  success  of  earlier  Eliza- 
bethan drama  and  of  French  romantic  drama.  That  they 
may  become  hampering  prescriptions  instead  of  vital  prin- 
ciples is  suggested  by  a  certain  stiffness  and  artificiality  in 
some  French  classical  dramas.  But  that  they  are  negligible 
is  a  rash  assumption.  Alike  in  farce  and  in  tragedy,  they 
are  an  approved  means  to  intensity.  Earlier  Elizabethan 
drama  did,  indeed,  prevail  without  them;  but  the  superiority 
of  Othello  to  Tamburlaine,  and  to  Shakspere's  own  earlier 
plays,  reveals  something  more  than  Shakspere's  transcend- 
ent genius;  it  shows  better  play  writing,  better  composition. 
There  are  signs  in  Marlowe's  later  plays  that  he  too,  if  he 
had  lived,  would  have  thus  made  his  undoubted  emotional 
grasp  more  effective  by  better  dramatic  focus.  Victor 
Hugo's  romantic  tragedies,  undoubtedly  powerful  in  many 
scenes,  are  the  less  powerful  as  wholes  because  interruptions 
of  the  action,  unnecessary  changes  of  place  or  time,  impair 
the  consecutive  progress  of  the  dominant  emotion.  Neither 
the  dramatic  unities  nor  any  other  technical  device  will 
make  a  play  good;  but  their  underlying  principle  of  focus 
will  make  a  potentially  good  play  better. 


246  MOVEMENT    BY   SCENES 

This  underlying  principle  is  all  contained  in  the  idea  of 
unity  of  action.  The  other  unities,  those  of  time  and  place, 
are  generally  important  only  in  so  far  as  they  carry  out 
unity  of  action  practically.  Indeed,  they  should  be  followed 
or  rejected  as  practical  devices.  If  permitting  a  lapse  of 
time  will  give  opportunity  for  putting  on  the  stage  a  scene 
desirable  for  bringing  out  the  main  emotion,  then  that  scene 
should  not  be  crowded  out  of  the  play  by  mere  rule.  If  a 
change  of  setting  will  give  opportunity  to  represent  a  man's 
character  in  stronger  relief,  then  it  is  sufficiently  justified. 
Given  the  resources  of  the  modern  theater  for  stage  illusion, 
shifts  of  time  and  place  may  well  be  considered  merely  in 
this  aspect.  But  since,  with  whatever  stage  devices,  and 
in  however  many  places,  a  play  must,  by  the  very  necessities 
of  the  stage,  omit  much  from  any  conceivable  story,  since 
a  play  must  after  all  depend  on  a  few  scenes  shown  within 
two  hours,  the  burden  of  proof  is  always  on  the  proposal  to 
break  in  time  or  in  place.  The  break  must  be  for  clear 
dramatic  reason.  The  assumption  is  that  the  play  should 
go  on  when  and  where  it  begins. 

Going  on  in  a  setting  and  an  hour  carefully  chosen  as 
critical  is  the  most  obvious  technical  means  to  consecutive- 
ness;  the  dramatic  unity  of  action  often  provides  the  most 
favorable  condition  for  leading  emotion  on,  for  preparing 
it,  amplifying  it,  and  bringing  it  home.  The  situation  of 
Abraham  and  Isaac  is  reaUzed  most  effectively  in  a  single 
setting.  To  provide  a  separate  opening  scene  showing  the 
occasion  or  the  beginning  of  their  journey  would  merely 
delay  and  distract.  It  would  show  nothing  that  is  not 
shown  at  the  place  of  sacrifice.  There  is  no  other  ground 
for  unity  than  this  opportunity  for  fulness  and  gradual, 
steady  progress.  Unity  conceived  as  merely  restrictive  may 
be  merely  a  hindrance.  A  play  may  be  so  unified  as  to  be 
quite  static,  reduced  to  mere  talk,  deprived  of  those  actions 


FULNESS  OF  DRAMATIC  CLOSE  247 

which  alone  would  make  the  situation  dramatically  interest- 
ing. Such  unity  is  worse  than  a  mere  broken  succession  of 
really  dramatic  scenes.  The  only  possible  value  of  unity 
is  to  provide  an  iminterrupted  course  of  significant  actions. 

3.  Ftilness  of  Dramatic  Close 

That  steady  progress  from  scene  to  scene  .which  is  a  main 
dramatic  means  of  enhancing  emotion  implies  culmination. 
A  good  play  leads  up  —  to  what?  Of  course  to  its  conclu- 
sion; but  the  word  conclusion  suggests  a  logical  result,  and 
the  result  of  a  play  is  emotional.  A  play  is  written,  not  to 
explain  or  to  prove,  but  to  bring  home.  Nevertheless  the 
closing  scene  of  a  good  play,  though  its  message  is  not  formu- 
lated in  a  proposition,  is  usually  just  as  definite  as  the  closing 
paragraph  of  a  good  speech.  The  action  has  brought  us 
to  a  definite  state  of  mind.  The  emotional  result  is  clear. 
By  living  with  the  persons  on  the  stage  we  have  been  brought 
to  their  state  of  mind;  we  feel  sympathetically  what  that 
state  of  mind  is,  and  that  their  actions  have  brought  them 
to  it;  we  are  satisfied.  By  this  is  meant,  not  that  the  closing 
scene  of  a  play  should  be  satisfactory,  but  that  it  should  be 
satisfying.  We  may  like  it  or  hate  it;  but  we  must  not  find 
it  inconsequential,  abrupt,  incomplete,  or  puzzling.  A  good 
dramatic  close  is  called  convincing;  and  this  means,  not 
that  the  issue  could  be  proved  to  be  reasonable  by  argu- 
ment, but  that  we  have  been  brought  there  by  the  progress 
of  feeling,  and  that  there  our  feeling  rests. 

This  seems  to  be  the  idea  underlying  Freytag's  ^  division 
of  dramatic  movement  into  exposition,  rising  action,  crisis, 

*  Freytag,  Die  Technik  des  Dramas,  chapter  ii,  section  2,  Fiinf  Theile 
und  Drei  Stellen  des  Dramas;  i.e.,  (a)  Einleitung,  (b)  Steigerung, 
(c)  Hohenpunkt,  (d)  Fall  oder  Umkehr,  (e)  Katastrophe.  MacEwan's 
translation  (page  114)  renders  these:  (a)  introduction,  (b)  rise,  (c) 
climax,  (d)  return  or  fall,  (e)  catastrophe. 


248  MOVEMENT   BY   SCENES 

falling  action,  and  conclusion.  He  can  hardly  have  meant, 
what  he  has  sometimes  been  taken  to  mean,  that  drama 
typically  rises  and  falls  in  interest;  for  to  relax  interest 
would  be  no  less  fatal  in  drama  than  in  story.  Rather  his 
formula  may  be  taken  to  express  the  distinction  of  drama 
from  story  in  noUment  and  denoHment  (page  218),  in  com- 
plication and  solution.  Sitting  together  in  the  theater,  an 
audience  is  apt  to  desire,  more  than  a  solitary  reader  desires 
of  a  story,  a  full  and  definite  solution.  The  close  of  a  story 
may  be  rather  briefly  suggestive;  it  may  sometimes  merely 
hint;  but  on  the  stage  we  Hke,  as  we  say,  to  see  just  how 
things  turned  out.  Even  if  we  have  guessed  ahead  —  rather 
because  we  have  guessed  ahead  —  we  like  to  see  our  guesses 
come  true  before  our  eyes.  As  a  story,  Macbeth  might  end 
with  the  hero's  final  disillusionment  on  the  death  of  his  wife 
while  the  avengers  storm  toward  him  without;  on  the  stage 
we  like  to  see  also  his  final  desperate  fight.  As  a  story 
Oedipus  might  end  with  the  final  revelation;  as  a  play  it 
ends  with  the  awful  penance  of  mutilation.  Perhaps  because 
the  whole  dramatic  process  is  representative,  not  merely  sug- 
gestive, we  expect  full  representation  at  the  end.  Just  as  the 
crisis  of  a  play  is  often  more  evidently  than  the  crisis  of  a 
story  a  definite  turning-point,  so  the  solution  is  more  fully 
carried  out.  The  Greek  dramatic  term  used  by  Freytag 
for  the  concluding  scene  of  a  play  is  katastrophe;  and  it 
means,  not  catastrophe,  but  conclusion,  the  issue  of  the 
action  into  a  state  of  rest. 

The  typically  dramatic  fulness  of  solution  implies  for  the 
playwright  definiteness  of  interpretation.  He  is  able  to 
make  his  persons  live  before  us  on  the  stage  by  focus.  His 
selection,  his  limiting  of  time  and  place,  his  leading  from 
scene  to  scene,  are  only  the  technical  means  of  realizing 
his  emotional  intention.  He  is  trying  to  show  us  human  life, 
not  in  random  or  interrupted  glimpses,  not  in  the  jumble 


DRAMATIC  DICTION  249 

and  discord  of  its  surface,  nor  in  aimless  or  frustrated  move- 
ments, but  in  the  animating  emotions  of  its  crises.  In  order 
to  represent  crises,  he  is  led  to  show  us  wherein  they  are 
critical  >  in  order  to  give  to  emotion  full  expression,  he  must 
make  it  significant.  Rather  it  is  this  significance  which 
first  caught  his  attention,  which  gave  him  the  conception 
of  his  play  and  guided  his  realization.  If  his  dramatic 
movement  halts  or  lapses,  the  reason  may  lie  deeper  than 
technic  in  uncertainty  of  intention;  and  if  on  the  other 
hand  he  is  able  to  sustain  it  and  carry  it  through,  the  funda- 
mental reason  is  that  his  conception  of  its  issue  is  strong 
and  clear.  For  dramatic  movement  is  essentially  move- 
ment to  a  clear  issue.    The  katastrophe  determines  the  play. 


V.  DRAMATIC  DICTION 

That  drama  as  representation  appeals  primarily  to  the 
eye  does  not  warrant  neglect  of  its  appeal  to  the  ear.  All 
dramas  except  film-plays,  pantomimes,  and  some  few  pag- 
eants are  not  only  acted;  they  are  spoken;  and  even 
pageantry  has  its  distinct  effects  of  diction.  Since  a  play  is 
to  be  heard  as  well  as  seen,  and  since  its  words  are  for  the  ear 
alone,  not,  as  those  of  the  printed  page,  for  the  eye,  dramatic 
diction  is  peculiarly  oral.  It  is  gauged  to  the  ear.  It  does 
not,  as  stories  do,  seek  to  suggest  visual  images.  All  that 
field  is  covered  by  the  actual  representation  before  our  eyes. 
What  the  words  of  a  play  express  is  sometimes  information 
and  always  mood,  emotion,  character.  A  play  has  lines 
as  well  as  action  in  order  that  emotion  and  character  may 
be  not  only  seen,  but  heard.  Thus  dramatic  diction  is  an 
especially  direct  form  of  personal  expression. 

Dramatic  diction  is  direct  because  it  is  directed.  Con- 
versational it  is  of  course,  in  order  to  sustain  the  illusion  of 
our  overhearing  actual  talk;    but  it  cannot  be  con  versa- 


250  DRAMATIC  DICTION 

tional  in  the  sense  of  being  diffuse,  desultory,  inconsequent 
tial.  The  illusion  is  kept,  most  commonly  to-day,  by  making 
the  lines  short.  A  modern  play  is  chary  of  long  speeches. 
Single  sentences  and  short  sentence-groups  furthq^  inter- 
action (page  234)  and  prevent  lagging  of  attention.  But 
good  dramatic  lines  are  often  short  because  they  are  terse. 
Every  word  counts.  Every  sentence  is  significant  by  its 
immediate  emotion  or  by  its  forecast.  Dramatic  diction 
is  constantly  animated  and  often  highly  charged.  Nothing, 
of  course,  could  be  further  from  the  diffuse,  circuitous, 
even  the  interrupted  and  confused,  course  of  actual  con- 
versation. Gratiano  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice  seems  a 
babbler;  but  he  has  not  many  lines.  JuHet^s  nurse  seems 
incoherent;  but  she  does  not  delay  the  play.  Dramatic 
dialogue  imitates  conversation  only  by  its  sound.  It  may 
sound  either  interrupted  or  leisurely  according  to  mood  and 
character.  Its  rhythms  may  be  broken  or  incoherent  with 
emotion.  But  its  sense  is  always  and  immediately  lucid. 
However  animated  the  talk,  however  many  persons  join, 
there  can  never  be  confusion.  The  result  at  any  moment  is 
quite  clear;  and  we  are  always  moving  on.  For  drama  is 
far  less  tolerant  than  story  or  essay  or  speech  of  redundancy. 
Actors  are  impatient  of  what  they  call  a  *'talky"  play. 
Every  word  must  be  significant.  What  sounds  hke  talk 
has  been  pared  down  as  actual  talk  never  can  be.  Drama 
so  manipulates  the  forms  of  conversation  as  to  achieve  that 
movement  which  in  all  imaginative  composition  is  essential 
to  vividness  (page  179),  a  series  of  significances  uninter- 
rupted by  insignificances.  Dramatic  diction  is  the  realiza- 
tion of  this  movement  for  the  ear. 

The  pace  of  a  given  speech  is  determined  by  its  mood 
(page  187).  Such  adaptation  of  pace,  sought  no  less  in 
other  forms  of  imaginative  composition,  is  in  drama  en- 
hanced by  the  elocution  of  the  actor;  but,  without  waiting 


•     DRAMATIC  DICTION  251 

for  the  inevitable  changes  of  rehearsal,  a  playwright  should 
test  it  by  reading  his  lines  aloud.  How  much  the  connota- 
tion of  sentence  movement  counts  in  the  total  dramatic 
effect  can  be  shown  by  analyzing  any  passage  of  distinct 
emotion.  Toward  the  close  of  the  first  act  of  William 
Vaughan  Moody's  Great  Divide  is  a  passage  whose  meaning 
may  be  conveyed  as  follows : 

Though  I  ought  to  take  my  life,  ought  to  die,  and  have  a  right 
to  die,  I  cannot.  I  love  my  life  so  that  I  must  live.  Even  in  tor- 
ment and  darkness  I  want  my  life;  and  I  will  have  it. 

But  for  the  intensity  of  the  situation  this  is  quite  too  de- 
Uberate.  The  sentence  movement  of  the  actual  lines  keeps 
pace  with  the  motion. 

GHENT 

And  how  about  your  life? 

RUTH 

I  tried  to  do  it. 

GHENT 

To  do  what? 

RUTH 

To  take  my  life.  I  ought  to  die.  I  have  a  right  to  die.  But  I 
cannot,  I  cannot!  I  love  my  life;  I  must  live.  In  torment,  in  dark- 
ness —  it  doesn't  matter.    I  want  my  life.    I  will  have  it! 

The  shaping  of  sound  to  mood,  of  movement  to  emotion, 
has  been  carried  in  the  best  dramatic  diction  to  the  largest 
and  to  the  finest  effects  of  rhythm  and  cadence,  giving  to 
the  representation  an  accompaniment  of  suggestion.  The 
heights  of  this  art  are  in  dramatic  verse.  Good  dramatic 
verse,*  to  say  nothing  of  the  best,  is  not  a  lyrical  addition, 
not  a  decoration,  but  as  truly  a  dramatic  means  as  the  other 

*  This  paragraph  and  the  two  following  are  adapted  from  the  author's 
Note  on  the  History  Play,  in  Shakesperian  Studies  edited  by  Brander 
Matthews  and  Ashley  Horace  Thorndike,  New  York,  Columbia 
University  Press,  1916,  page  306. 


252  DRAMATIC  DICTION 

means  of  characterization.  Shakspere's  verse  control  has 
been  sufficiently  praised  for  range  and  freedom.  His  secure 
freedom  should  be  interpreted  not  merely  as  variety,  but  as 
dramatic  adaptation.  Within  the  bounds  of  a  single  meter 
he  enhanced  rhythmically  the  quarrel  of  Brutus  and  Cassius,* 
Lear's  summons  to  Regan,^  the  sudden  agony  of  Othello's 
doubt,'  and  Macbeth  *  sinking  under  his  sin.  To  know  how 
far  verse  can  be  dramatic  one  need  only  hear  Shakspere 
from  a  great  actor.  The  desire  of  the  men  and  women  of 
the  stage  to  play  Shakspere  is  something  more  than  ambi- 
tion for  traditional  star  parts  or  for  sword  and  cloak;  it  is 
the  artist's  instinct  for  lines  that  liberate  all  his  dramatic 
powers. 

To  what  lengths  Shakspere  used  this  resource  is  seen  in 
Othello,  perhaps  the  extreme  instance  of  verse  used  dramat- 
ically. That  metrical  audacity,  which  has  left  pedagogues 
counting  syllables  in  vain  and  sharpened  the  critical  scrutiny 
of  the  text,  is  the  delight  of  actors.  They  feel  in  these 
shifting  rhythms  an  emotional  expression  as  direct  and 
physical  as  gesture.  Read  so,  the  brawl  manipulated  to 
Cassio's  disgrace  —  and  the  instance  is  not  exceptional  — 
has  rhythmical  effects  almost  separately  dramatic.  lago's 
rapid  instructions  to  Roderigo,  his  fomenting  of  the  fight, 
the  dignity  of  Othello's  anger,  are  hardly  more  remark- 
able in  action  and  in  structural  placing  than  in  tempo  and 
phrasing. 

logo.     {Aside  to  Roderigo)    Away,  I  say;  go  out,  and  cry  a  mutiny. 

Exit  Roderigo. 
Nay,  good  lieutenant,  —  God's  will,  gentlemen;  — 
Help,  ho!  —  Lieutenant,  —  sir,  —  Montane,  —  sir;  — 
Help,  masters!  —  Here's  a  goodly  watch  indeed! 

Bell  Rings. 

1  Julius  Caesar,  IV.  iii.  35.  « Lear,  II.  iv.  89.  » Othello,  III.  iii.  90, 
quoted  below.    *  Macbeth,  V.  v.  9-29. 


DRAMATIC  DICTION  253 

Who's  that  which  rings  the  bell?  —  Diablo,  ho! 
The  town  will  rise.    God's  will,  heutenant,  hold! 
You  will  be  sham'd  for  ever. 

Re-enter  Othello  and  Attendants, 

0th.  What  is  the  matter  here? 

Mon.    'Zounds,  I  bleed  still;  I  am  hurt  to  the  death. 

He  dies. 

0th.      Hold,  for  your  Hves! 

logo.     Hold  ho!    Lieutenant,  —  sir,  —  Montano,  —  gentlemen,  — 
Have  you  forgot  all  sense  of  place  and  duty? 
Hold!  the  general  speaks  to  you;  hold,  for  shame! 

0th.      Why,  how  now,  ho!  from  whence  ariseth  this? 
Are  we  turn'd  Turks,  and  to  ourselves  do  that 
Which  Heaven  hath  forbid  the  Ottomites? 
For  Christian  shame  put  by  this  barbarous  brawl. 
He  that  stirs  next  to  carve  for  his  own  rage 
Holds  his  soul  Ught;  he  dies  upon  his  motion. 
Silence  that  dreadful  bell;  it  frights  the  isle 
From  her  propriety.    What  is  the  matter,  masters? 
Honest  lago,  that  looks  dead  with  grieving, 
Speak,  who  began  this?    On  thy  love,  I  charge  thee.^ 

Shakspere's  accommodation  of  dramatic  rhythms  to  met- 
rical pattern  is  represented,  more  typically  than  in  the  ex- 
treme case  of  Othello,  by  Lear  and  Macbeth.  The  meter  of 
Lear,  though  distinctly  more  reserved,  is  played  no  less  dra- 
matically. The  verses  spoken  by  the  king,  finely  differen- 
tiated throughout  for  character,  carry  to  its  full  dramatic 
height  his  outbursts  of  passion,  as  in  his  summons  to  Regan.^ 
The  rhythms  rise  and  fall  with  the  mood,  breaking  and 
stammering,  subsiding  to  the  normal  beat,  quivering  again. 
So  few  instances  can  exhibit  only  the  effects  most  obviously 

1  Othello,  n.  iii.  157-178.  « Lear,  II.  iv.  89-122. 


254  DRAMATIC  DICTION 

dramatic.     To  the  attentive  ear  the  finer  and  more  pervasive 
adaptations  are  no  less  suggestive. 

In  enhancing  emotion  the  suggestion  of  sentence  move- 
ment may  also  enhance  characterization.  It  has  often  been 
remarked  that  inferior  plays  make  their  persons  too  much 
aUke  in  speech;  and  it  is  equally  obvious  that  certain  broader 
effects  of  characterization  are  most  readily  conveyed  by 
a  local  or  professional  habit  of  speech,  such  as  rustic  dialect 
or  slang  or  professional  conventionalities.  In  fact,  typical 
farmers,  sailors,  street  urchins,  parsons,  doctors,  etc.,  each 
with  an  appropriate  lingo,  are  known  on  the  stage  as  char- 
acter parts.  More  personal  habits  of  speech  are  indicated, 
especially  in  the  caricature  of  farce,  by  the  recurrence  of  pet 
phrases  and  other  mannerisms.  Such  adaptations  of  diction 
are  but  of  the  simplest  and  broadest.  Finer  and  more  per- 
vasive are  the  suggestions  of  character  that  come  from  sen- 
tence movement.  By  the  run  of  their  sentences,  as  well  as  by 
their  choice  of  words,  children  are  differentiated  from  their 
elders,  fine  ladies  from  shop-girls,  scholars  from  day-laborers; 
and  this  is  one  of  the  best  ways  to  avoid  monotony,  which 
is  after  all  an  effect  mainly  of  sound.  Sjmge's  suggestions 
of  Irish  peasantry  are  conveyed  no  more  by  a  strange  raci- 
ness  of  diction  than  by  a  novel  speech-tune.  Sentence 
movement  even  helps  to  characterize  individuals.  Charles 
Surface's  sentences  are  like  him,  simple  and  straightforward. 

'Fore  heaven,  'tis  true!  There's  the  great  degeneracy  of  the  age. 
Many  of  our  acquaintances  have  taste,  spirit,  and  politeness;  but, 
plague  on't,  they  won't  drink.   .  .  . 

Then  he'll  have  the  worst  of  it.  What!  you  wouldn't  train  a 
horse  for  the  course  by  keeping  him  from  corn?  For  my  part, 
egad,  I  am  never  so  successful  as  when  I  am  a  little  merry.  Let 
me  throw  on  a  bottle  of  champagne,  and  I  never  lose. 

—  The  School  for  Scandal,  III,  iii. 


DRAMATIC  DICTION  255 

The  tempo  of  Joseph  Surface's  Unes,  Uke  his  choice  of  words, 
is  more  self-conscious. 

LADY  SNEERWELL 

Poor  Charles! 

JOSEPH  SURFACE 

True,  madam;  notwithstanding  his  vices,  one  can't  help  feeUng 
for  him.  Poor  Charles!  I'm  sure  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to 
be  of  any  essential  service  to  him;  for  the  man  who  does  not  share 
in  the  distresses  of  a  brother,  even  though  merited  by  his  own 
misconduct,  deserves  — 

lADY  SNEERWELL 

O  Lud!  you  are  going  to  be  moral,  and  forget  that  you  are 
among  friends. 

JOSEPH  SURFACE 

Egad,  that's  true!  I'll  keep  that  sentiment  till  I  see  Sir  Peter. 
However,  it  is  certainly  a  charity  to  rescue  Maria  from  such  a 
libertine,  who,  if  he  is  to  be  reclaimed,  can  be  so  only  by  a  person 
of  your  ladyship's  superior  accompUshments  and  understanding. 
—  The  School  for  Scandal,  I,  i. 

Such  differentiation  by  characteristic  speech-tune  under- 
lies some  of  the  finer  effects  of  Shakspere.  The  sentence 
movement  of  Antony  is  simpler  and  more  varied  than  the 
terse  and  somewhat  labored  balance  of  Brutus. 

BRUTUS 

Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers!  hear  me  for  my  cause,  and  be 
silent,  that  you  may  hear;  beUeve  me  for  mine  honour,  and  have 
respect  to  mine  honour,  that  you  may  beheve;  censure  me  in  your 
wisdom,  and  awake  your  senses,  that  you  may  the  better  judge. 
If  there  be  any  in  this  assembly,  any  dear  friend  of  Caesar's,  to  him 
I  say  that  Brutus'  love  to  Caesar  was  no  less  than  his.  If  then  that 
friend  demand  why  Brutus  rose  against  Caesar,  this  is  my  answer: 
Not  that  I  lov'd  Caesar  less,  but  that  I  lov'd  Rome  more.  Had 
you  rather  Caesar  were  living  and  die  all  slaves,  than  that  Caesar 
were  dead,  to  hve  all  freemen?    As  Caesar  lov'd  me,  I  weep  for 


256  DRAMATIC  DICTION 

him;  as  he  was  fortunate,  I  rejoice  at  it;  as  he  was  valiant,  I  hon- 
our him;  but,  as  he  was  ambitious,  I  slew  him.  .There  is  tears  for 
his  love;  joy  for  his  fortune;  honour  for  his  valour;  and  death  for 
his  ambition.  Who  is  here  so  base  that  would  be  a  bondman?  If 
any,  speak;  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who  is  here  so  rude  that 
would  not  be  a  Roman?  If  any,  speak;  for  him  have  I  offended. 
Who  is  here  so  vile  that  will  not  love  his  country?  If  any,  speak; 
for  him  have  I  offended.    I  pause  for  a  reply. 

—  Julius  Caesar,  III.  ii.  13-38. 

ANTONY 

Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears! 

I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them; 

The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones. 

So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.    The  noble  Brutus 

Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious. 

If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault; 

And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answered  it. 

Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest  — 

For  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man; 

So  are  they  all,  all  honourable  men  — 

Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 

He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me; 

But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious, 

And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 

—  Julius  Caesar,  III.  ii.  78-92. 

This  variety  of  rhythms  within  a  single  meter  stands  out 
in  contrast  to  the  indistinguishable  uniformity  of  the  speech 
in  some  other  historical  dramas,  for  instance  Addison's  Cato. 
The  periodic  form  of  the  following  passage  chimes  with 
Antonio's  deliberative  dignity. 

Shylock,  although  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow 
By  taking  nor  by  giving  of  excess. 
Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  of  my  friend, 
I'll  break  a  custom. 

—  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  I.  iii.  62. 


DRAMATIC  DICTION  257 

The  rhythms  of  Shylock,  equally  dignified,  are  different  be- 
cause they  too  are  characteristic.  The  famous  passage 
beginning  "Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft"  (III.  ii. 
107),  heard  from  a  great  actor,  is  felt  to  be  characteristic 
in  its  very  sound. 

In  all  this  there  is  no  implication  of  deliberate  attempt 
to  compose  in  certain  measures.  That  is  inconceivably 
absurd.  Playwriting,  hke  all  other  writing,  is  expressing 
thought  and  emotion,  not  "fiddling  harmonics."  A  play- 
wright can  harmonize  the  movement  of  his  lines  with  the 
emotion  and  the  character  only  by  being  possessed  with 
that  emotion  and  living  in  that  character  by  imaginative 
insight.  Analysis  merely  reveals  how  the  creative  impulse 
has  worked;  it  does  not  provide  a  means  of  making  oneself 
creative.  But  it  does  provide  a  means  of  revision.  Like 
all  other  matters  of  detail,  the  lines  of  a  play  usually  need 
revision.  Indeed,  in  skilful  playwriting  the  words  and  sen- 
tences are  likely  to  be  left  tentative  longer  than  in  any 
other  form  of  composition.  To  settle  the  lines  before 
settling  the  action  is  a  common  amateur  error.  And'  since 
words  and  sentences  belong  less  to  composition  than  to 
re\dsion,  there  is  the  greater  opportunity  for  careful  ad- 
justment. In  thus  trjdng  to  make  what  is  said  carry  more 
and  more  of  what  is  meant  and  felt  we  must  not  trust  to 
the  eye  alone;  we  need  revision  by  ear. 


APPENDIX  A 

ASSIGNMENTS 

The  following  assignments  are  meant  rather  to  suggest 
direction  and  method  than  to  stress  certain  topics. 

ASSIGNMENTS  FOR  CHAPTER  I, 
INFORMATION 

1.     Object 

Since  the  aim  is  so  to  present  real  information  as  to  hold 
the  attention  of  an  audience  and  to  win  comprehension, 
such  topics  must  be  suggested  and  eUcited  as  will  make 
this  worth  while  not  merely  as  an  exercise,  but  as  an  achieve- 
ment. The  aim  being  to  achieve  a  certain  result,  not  to 
conform  to  a  certain  type,  the  assignments,  though  always 
definite,  should  be  promotive,  not  restrictive.  Argument 
need  not  be  ruled  out;  for  some  students  it  helps  focus  and 
consecutiveness  by  providing  motive  and  interest.  De- 
scription is  often  necessary  and  usually  desirable.  But 
though  there  need  be  no  restriction  to  "pure  exposition," 
both  argument  and  description  must  for  the  time  be  sub- 
ordinated to  the  main  task  of  making  people  understand. 
To  this  end  the  first  essential  is  that  the  information  be 
real  and  trustworthy;  the  next,  that  it  be  so  organized  as 
to  be  followed  easily.  The  first  practically  demands  in- 
vestigation. Though  topics  need  not  all,  or  altogether, 
depend  on  reading,  they  will  for  full  value  and  interest 
involve  reading,  and  they  should  progressively  expand 
ability  in  research.    Relations  to  college  courses  or  to  other 


260  APPENDIX  A 

actual  interests  should  be  brought  out  in  the  regular  con- 
ferences with  individuals  which  are.  an  essential  provision 
for  effective  teaching. 

2.    Length 

The  first  assignment  had  better  be  not  less  than  600 
words;  and  in  general  the  assignments  should  be  longer 
and  longer  up  to  at  least  1200  words.  Individual  students 
will  readily  learn  to  sustain  an  account  of  2000  words. 
The  longer  the  assignment,  the  longer  the  preparation; 
i.e.,  for  a  class  or  for  an  individual,  the  longer,  the  fewer. 
Thus  there  may  be  set  for  a  given  period  rather  a  minimum 
total  of  words  than  a  fixed  number  of  articles.  A  particular 
student  may  gain  more  by  exploring  a  topic  further  while 
his  neighbor  proceeds  to  another,  both  writing  in  a  given 
time  about  the  same  number  of  words.  But,  this  leeway 
granted,  each  single  assignment  should  be  definite  as  to 
space  or  time.  Whether  the  subject  is  pursued  afterward 
or  not,  the  task  of  the  moment  should  be  adjusted  to  800 
words,  or  1000,  or  1200.  Otherwise  there  will  be  no  suffi- 
cient gauge  of  its  proportions.  Generally  also  a  few  long 
themes,  while  they  give  all  the  practise  in  detail  proposed 
by  frequent  short  exercises,  yield  values  more  proper  to 
college  study  and  more  interesting  to  college  students. 

3.     Class  Wcrrk 

(a)  Topics.  The  first  task  in  class,  first  in  time,  and 
first  in  importance,  is  to  make  the  assignment  clear  and 
suggestive,  to  show:  (1)  the  aim,  what  is  to  be  attempted 
and  why;  and  (2)  the  method,  by  expansion  of  the  direc- 
tions in  Chapter  I  and  by  application  of  these  to  particular 
proposals  of  topics.  Typically  fruitful  topics  should  be 
discussed  and  proposals  sounded  as  to  their  promise  of 
yielding    available    information    and    human    interest.    Is 


APPENDIX  A  261 

this  topic  still  alive  for  actual  hearers  and  readers?  What 
aspects  of  it  interest  you  especially?  Where  will  you  find 
your  facts? 

(6)  Notes,  Outlines,  Oral  Development.  So  soon  as  in- 
vestigation is  in  progress,  notes  may  be  brought  to  class, 
controlled  quickly  by  a  glance  here  and  there,  compared 
through  brief  preliminary  oral  reports,  and  sunmaed  up 
at  the  end  of  the  hour  for  general  guidance.  The  investi- 
gation of  the  topics  actually  in  hand  will  provide  all  the 
necessary  practise  in  the  use  of  the  library.  Outline  for 
division  and  definition,  i.e.,  for  sorting  and  grouping  the 
notes,  is  worth  Uttle  to  the  class  as  a  class.  What  is  worth 
much  is  outline  for  presentation,  i.e.,  consecutive  plan  by 
paragraphs.  At  this  point,  therefore,  the  whole  class  will 
gain  by  oral  presentation  of  some  topics  entire  in  preUminary 
draft,  and  of  others  in  part  with  indication  of  the  whole 
plan.  Thus  the  composer  and  the  class  alike  will  most 
readily  gain  a  sense  of  reaHty,  immediacy,  and  adaptation 
in  general,  and  of  the  sufficiency  or  interest  of  particular 
parts.  The  speaker  should  not  explain  how  he  proposes 
to  treat  his  subject  (that  has  been  done  at  the  beginning); 
he  should  actually  treat  it  consecutively  as  he  proposes  to 
write  it,  but  without  writing  it  first  (see  pages  136-140). 
The  class  discussion  of  his  address  should  be  directed,  not 
yet  to  sentences  and  words,  but  to  subject-matter  and  clear- 
ness of  arrangement.  The  leading  questions  are:  (1) 
What  did  he  say?  i.e.,  what  did  he  bring  out?  (2)  By 
what  stages?  (3)  What  changes  in  order  or  proportion 
should  he  make  in  writing? 

Study  of  models  at  this  point  cannot  demand  much  time, 
and  is  not  very  important.  Reading  for  facts  should  not 
be  deviated  and  confused  by  miscellaneous  use  of  period- 
icals for  digest  and  analysis.     Focus  on  the  main  thing. 

(c)  Revision.    After  the  article  has  been  written,   and 


262  APPENDIX  A 

more  readily  after  it  has  been  criticized  individually,  prof- 
itable class  review  of  technic  may  proceed:  (1)  by  a  student's 
explaining  what  changes  are  proposed  for  revision,  and  why; 
and  (2)  occasionally  by  actual  revision  in  class  along  Unes 
indicated  in  the  criticism.  For  convenience  of  reference, 
all  the  technic  of  revision  is  grouped  in  Chapter  II;  but 
some  of  it  is  available  in  connection  with  the  assignments 
of  Chapter  I.  Rewriting  is  profitable  for  class  discussion 
only  in  so  far  as  it  involves  recasting.  Mere  rehearsal  of 
corrections  in  detail  is  tedious,  and  for  other  reasons  it 
should  be  thrown  upon  the  individual.  Even  for  him 
correction  should  be  rather  a  requirement  before  the  manu- 
script is  submitted,  whereas  recasting  may  be  always  both 
interesting  and  profitable. 

{d)  Groups  and  Series.  In  some  cases  several  students 
may  well  combine  to  cover  a  single  larger  topic  (e.g.  (1) 
The  Port  of  New  York,  (2)  The  Kentucky  Frontier,  (3) 
The  '49  in  California)  by  taking  each  some  part  or  aspect 
(e.g.,  (1)  The  New  Piers,  The  Terminal  Railroad;  (2) 
Daniel  Boone  as  a  Frontier  Type,  The  Life  of  a  Woman  on 

the  Kentucky  Frontier  in  ■;    etc.)     Similarly  a  single 

student  may  sometimes  carry  one  of  these  larger  topics 
through  a  series  of  articles,  each  covering  some  part  or 
phase.  In  both  these  cases  of  combination  there  should 
be  care  to  revise  the  whole  as  a  whole,  to  fit  the  parts  into 
some  general  scheme.  Though  this  should  be  forecast  in 
advance,  it  always  demands  reshaping  afterwards. 

4.     Specimen  Assignments 

Avoid  assignments,  such  as  the  explaining  of  a  process 
of  manufacture  or  the  chronological  summary  of  a  career, 
which  invite  mere  enumeration  in  an  order  fixed  by  the 
source.  Every  assignment  should  demand  independent 
organization  and  the  use  of  more  than  one  source.    Only 


APPENDIX  A  263 

thus  will  a  student  come  to  realize  his  own  interests  and  to 
focus  his  thought  and  expression. 

(a)  First  Assignment.  A  fruitful  general  suggestion  for 
a  first  theme,  before  the  instructor  has  had  opportunity  to 
know  the  students  individually,  is:  Give  in  five  to  seven 
paragraphs  {600-750  words)  a  clear  and  interesting  account 
of  some  organization  with  which  you  are  familiar;  e.g.,  Girl 
Scouts,  The  Fatherless  Children  of  France,  A  Local  Red 
Cross  Center,  The  Grange,  The  Consumers'  League,  The 
Drama  League,  The  Community  Theater,  The  Work  of 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  MiHtary  Camps,  The  Naval  Mihtia. 

(6)  Assignments  on  Occupations.  Another  general  sug- 
gestion is  of  the  opportunities  and  demands  of  a  particular 
occupation;  e.g.,  architecture  as  a  career  for  women,  school- 
teaching  as  a  career  for  men,  the  new  requirements  in  the 
School  of  Engineering  and  what  they  signify,  what  indus- 
trial chemistry  is,  laboratory  positions  in  the  Board  of 
Health,  dairy  farming,  a  country  parson  to-day,  the  differ- 
ence between  a  "business  college"  and  a  "school  of  com- 
merce," the  lawyer  as  an  adviser  in  business,  what  are 
the  prerequisites  for  secretarial  positions,  a  hospital  nurse, 
etc.  Such  investigations  may  help  a  student  to  determine 
his  bent  betimes,  and  in  some  cases  to  test  his  vocation. 
Meantime  they  are  interesting  to  the  whole  class. 

(c)  Assignments  Requiring  both  Observation  and  Reading. 
Many  topics  are  valuable  as  opening  both  observation 
and  reading  in  a  field  where  the  student  has  already  some 
interest  and  perhaps  some  information.  Such  topics  can  be 
both  seen  and  read,  investigated  both  on  the  spot  and  in 
print.  The  following  are  grouped  roughly  as  available  prim- 
arily (1)  in  the  larger  centers  of  population,  (2)  in  the 
smaller  centers. 

(1)  The  Model  Tenements  on Street,  the  New  "Gary"  School  at 

,  The Method  for  Crippled  Children,  The  Bureau  of  Ghari- 


264  APPENDIX  A 

ties,  The  Subway  System  (typical  of  a  theme  developed  by  several 
students  undertaking  (a)  train  schedules  and  service  in  relation  to 
population,  (6)  wage  scale  and  hours  of  work,  (c)  office  management, 
(d)  relations  to  the  city  government,  etc.),  The  Children's  Court, 
The  Altman  Collection  of  Paintings,  A  Department  Store  School  for 
Employees,  What  is  a  Police  Commissioner?  Cooper  Union,  The 
Musical  Art  Society,  The  Home  Defense  League,  Fire  Laws  for  Fac- 
tories, The  Management  of  Public  Parks,  The  ItaUan  Colony  in 

Street,  A  Local  Exemption  Board,  Voluntary  Censorship  of  Film  Plaj^, 
A  Municipal  Lodging-house. 

(2)  Growing  Beets  for  Sugar,  Bee-keeping  as  a  Business,  Drill-plant- 
ing and  Furrow-planting  of  Corn,  Recent  Experiments  with  Shade- 
grown  Tobacco,  The  Model  Dairy  Farm  at ,  Traction  Cultivators, 

Lumbering  in  Oregon,  The  Water  Supply  of ,  Workmen's  Houses 

of  the  Company,  The  New  Barracks  at  ,  Farm  Labor  in 

Southern  Illinois,  "Wet"  and  "Dry"  in  My  County,  The  Librarian 

in  a  Small  Town,  The  Light  and  Power  Company,  The  State 

Constabulary,  An  Indian  Reservation,  Whaling  Old  and  New,  Copper- 
mining  in ,  Reserve  Officers'  Training  Camps,  The  Management 

of  a  Summer  Hotel,  Sail  and  Steam  in  the  Atlantic  Coasting  Trade, 
The  Work  of  a  Forest  Warden,  A  Labor  Union  "Local,"  Observations 
for  the  Weather  Bureau,  The  New  Railroad  Bridge  at . 

{d)  Assignments  Specifically  Related  to  Other  Courses. 
Some  relation  to  other  courses  is  so  vital  as  to  be  practi- 
cally necessary.  The  degree  of  relation,  however,  the  extent, 
and  the  method  must  vary  from  college  to  college.  Though 
it  may  be  facilitated  by  seeing  each  student's  schedule,  or 
by  grouping  students  according  to  their  major  interests, 
effective  relation  demands  careful  planning  in  advance  and 
definite  knowledge  both  of  the  methods  of  other  depart- 
ments and  of  their  ideals  for  students'  writing.  Obviously 
some  studies  offer  better  opportunities  than  others.  Ele- 
mentary courses  in  language,  for  instance,  give  no  opening 
for  assignments  demanding  the  presentation  of  information, 
though  for  other  purposes  of  composition  they  may  be 
helpful.  Freshman  mathematics,  again,  is  generally  too 
abstract  and  formulaic  to  be  available,  and  so  is  much  of 


APPENDIX  A  265 

the  elementary  work  in  chemistry  and  physics.  The  in- 
dividual student  may  present  a  certain  type  of  airplane, 
turbine,  submarine,  gas  engine,  or  dehydration;  but  he 
should  be  held  to  explain  it,  to  make  its  principle  and  its 
application  intelhgible,  not  merely  to  write  about  it.  Such 
topics,  too,  remind  us  that  immediately  available  material 
is  to  be  sought  rather  in  applied  science.  Thus  students 
in  schools  of  technology  have  an  initial  advantage.  Among 
the  pure  sciences  botany  and  geology  seem  to  suggest  most 
readily  those  human  relations  which  are  vital  for  interest 
in  presentation.  A  leading  question  for  oral  or  written 
report  is,  What  point  in  all  your  college  courses  stands  out 
this  week  as  something  that  you  would  especially  like  to 
investigate  further?  What  do  you  see  in  it?  What  is  its 
especial  significance  to  you? 

By  its  human  interest  history  is  especially  adaptable. 
It  has  the  further  advantages  of  being  largely  elected  in 
freshman  year  and  of  having  in  the  best  secondary  schools 
opened  the  idea  of  research.  Best  of  all,  its  material, 
though  partly  digested  and  readily  available,  no  less  readily 
opens  collation.  The  assignment,  however,  should  be 
carefully  limited,  should  preclude  chronological  digest, 
and  should  suggest  possibilities  of  concreteness;  e.g.,  A 
Medieval  Town,  Monastery,  Guild,  or  Cathedral,  The  Issues 
in  the  Contest  over  Investitures,  Queen  Anne  Coffee-houses, 
The  Significance  of  the  Battle  of  Saratoga,  The  Coureurs 
de  Bois,  The  Armada. 

Economics  and  politics,  though  obviously  most  useful 
for  extensive  work  in  argument,  are  available  also  for  ex- 
position to  a  few  freshmen  each  year  in  such  topics  as: 

Profit-sharing  in  the Company,  The  Minimum  Wage 

in  New  Zealand,  The  State  Employment  Bureau,  The 
Working  of  the  Direct  Primary  in ,  Government  Con- 
trol of  Food  in ,  The  Platform  of  the Party,  The 


266  APPENDIX  A 

Interstate  Commerce   Commission,  Hours    and  Wages  in 

the  Industry,  Our  Naturalization  Laws,  The  Trend 

of  Immigration  from  1910  to  1914. 

The  fine  arts,  since  they  suggest  rather  discussion  and 
criticism  than  presentation  of  facts,  are  more  available 
later;  but  meantime  they  should  not  be  denied  to  the  right 
student. 


ASSIGNMENTS  FOR  CHAPTER  II, 
DISCUSSION 

Since  the  presentation  of  information  merges  naturally 
into  discussion,  the  topics  for  Chapter  I  are  available  also 
for  Chapter  II;  and  conversely  the  technic  reviewed  in  the 
latter  becomes  increasingly  important  for  the  tasks  of  the 
former  as  those  tasks  expand.  Students  had  better  read 
Chapter  II,  therefore,  while  they  are  still  engaged  upon 
assignments  demanding  primarily  the  presentation  of  in- 
formation. These  assignments,  especially  where  they  run 
into  longer  articles,  series,  or  groups  (e.g.,  on  the  interests 
of  Japan  in  China,  or  of  Italy  in  the  Balkans,  or  on  the 
Americanization  of  immigrants),  will  involve  more  and  more 
discussion.  Discussion  may  arise  even  earlier  from  simpler 
and  shorter  assignments;  e.g.,  an  article  on  a  series  of 
popular  concerts  may  provoke  a  discussion  on  how  to  hear 
music,  or  another  on  the  musical  taste  of  a  San  Francisco 
crowd;  explanation  of  the  work  of  a  forest  warden  may 
suggest  discussion  of  the  possibilities  of  forestry  as  a  career. 
In  a  word,  the  two  chapters  may  be  applied  both  separately 
and  together. 

As  increasing  stress  on  interpretation,  on  bringing  up 
underlying  ideas,  calls  for  review  of  technic,  there  should  be 
corresponding  stress  on  revision  for  definiteness  of  form 
and  for  both  precision  and  vividness  of  style.    The  class 


APPENDIX  A  267 

work  should  include  specific  analysis  of  practicable  models, 
i.e.,  analysis  of  the  particular  means  (paragraph  emphasis, 
concrete  language,  etc.)  of  achieving  exactly  what  the 
student  is  trjdng  to  do.  Such  study  should  not  be  mere 
admiration  of  classics;  it  should  be  made  immediately 
contributory  by  choosing  modern,  even  current  models,  by 
showing  in  each  case  that  the  theme  embraces  both  the 
object  and  the  audience,  by  defining  the  paragraph  stages 
(page  42),  and  by  examining  the  process  of  exposition  in 
detail.  The  use  of  a  single  periodical  through  an  extended 
period  will  hardly  be  worth  the  time  it  costs  unless  the 
selection  and  analysis  arei  directed  with  the  greatest  care. 
In  general,  there  will  hardly  be  time  for  a  reading  course; 
and  a  few  models,  even  two  or  three,  will  serve  practical 
purposes  about  as  well  as  many. 

For  further  relation  to  other  courses  the  leading  question 
now  is.  What  new  or  leading  idea  has  emerged  this  week 
from  all  your  college  studies  as  especially  significant?  Is 
the  significance  Hmited  to  the  field  of  one  course,  or  does 
it  focus  more  than  one  study?  Ideas  from  courses  in  Utera- 
ture  (not  only  English  Hterature)  and  the  other  arts  become 
more  available  in  such  topics  as  The  Significance  of  the 
Greek  Play  in  the  Stadium,  The  Modern  Construction  of 
Shakspere's  Othello,  Ballad  Habits  in  the  Ancient  Mariner , 
The  Poems  of  ,  Wagner's  Conception  of  Opera,  De- 
scriptive Music  and  the  Descriptive  Program,  Folk  Music, 
The  Revival  of  Tapestry.  Assignments  in  history  may  seek 
more  interpretation,  as  in  Survival  of  Feudal  Ideas  as  to 
the  Position  of  Women,  Trade  Guilds  and  Labor  Unions, 
The  Church  as  an  International  Institution,  The  Friars 
as  a  Revival  Movement.  Such  assignments  are  especially 
for  ambitious  students  not  pursuing  a  vocational  course. 

The  types  of  essay  summarized  in  Chapter  II  (pages 
86-92)  are   only  types,   not   distinct   literary  forms.    As 


268  APPENDIX  A 

forms  some  of  these  essays  are  antiquated.  Moreover 
the  essay,  however  generously  we  expand  the  term,  has 
rarely  been  popular  and  has  usually  been  the  product  of 
maturity,  not  of  youth.  As  an  assignment  for  college 
students,  especially  for  freshmen,  it  often  has  the  disad- 
vantage of  unreality.  Essay-writing  in  college  may  be  good 
exercise  for  bringing  other  courses  to  bear,  for  promoting 
appreciation,  for  defining  and  enhancing  notions  of  Hterary 
excellence,  and,  in  the  more  discursive,  descriptive  form 
of  the  familiar  essay,  for  promoting  freedom  and  fluency  of 
expression;  but  its  other  values  are  not  sufficient  to  warrant 
assigning  it  as  a  main  reUance  for  a  whole  class.  The  same 
objection  lies  against  the  use  of  a  magazine  for  class  analysis 
through  any  long  period.  More  widely  available  forms  of  dis- 
cussion are  the  newspaper  supplement  article  and  editorial. 

The  most  vital  and  adaptable  form  of  written  discussion 
to-day  is  the  editorial.  The  range  of  the  editorial  from 
information  to  persuasion  is  exhibited  this  morning  (August 
7,  1917)  as  I  write.  The  leading  editorial  in  one  New  York 
paper  explains  Mr.  Kerensky's  position  and  the  composition 
of  his  cabinet  by  a  survey  of  political  tendencies  and  exi- 
gencies in  Russia.  It  gives  no  space  to  argument,  much 
to  information,  most  to  interpretation.  The  next  paper 
that  I  read  gives  its  whole  editorial  space  to  a  single  edi- 
torial, of  about  the  same  length,  entirely  argumentative, 
on  the  advisability  of  stating  terms  of  peace.  The  former 
is  composed  in  comparatively  few,  and  hence  rather  long, 
paragraphs;  i.e.,  its  information  is  interpreted  by  a  few 
leading  ideas.  The  latter  is  composed  in  very  short  para- 
graphs; i.e.,  it  proceeds  by  short  steps;  and  this  bringing 
out  of  items  separately  is  enhanced  by  simpler  language, 
larger  type,  and  in  some  cases  by  deUberately  sphtting 
paragraphs.  Though  it  thus  gives  a  first  impression  of 
many  reasons,  the  latter  editorial  is  more  than  an  enumera- 


APPENDIX  A 

tion;  the  order  of  points  is  carefully  designed  to  lead  on 
to  the  conclusion.  Both  these  editorials  run  beyond  the 
usual  length.  As  strongly  marked  instances,  each  of  a 
single  direction,  they  show  how  freely  the  form  may  be 
adapted,  not  only  by  choice  of  words,  but  by  proportions  of 
information,  interpretation,  and  argument.  The  editorial 
at  once  opens  variety  and  compels  adaptation. 

Both  the  editorials  just  mentioned  are  too  nearly  sup- 
plement articles  to  be  fully  effective  as  editorials.  A  half- 
column  is  at  once  a  more  typical  length  and  better  as  a 
college  assignment;  for  one  of  its  chief  lessons  is  concise- 
ness, and  it  furnishes  a  kind  of  practise  more  sharply  dis- 
tinct from  that  of  the  assignments  for  Chapter  I.  The 
pecuUar  values  of  the  editorial  are  best  reaUzed  through 
writing  it,  as  it  is  written  in  newspaper  offices,  immediately 
and  quickly.  It  is  a  typically  good  assignment  for  im- 
promptu writing  in  class.  But  though  it  is  naturally 
impromptu,  it  cannot  be  unprepared.  The  writer  must 
know  what  he  is  talking  about,  or  he  will  cultivate  Uttle 
beyond  shallow  glibness.  Therefore  the  topics  are  limited 
practically  to  three:  (1)  a  topic  of  pubUc  concern  which 
the  writer  has  followed  in  news  reports  enough  for  real 
knowledge  of  the  facts  and  their  bearings;  (2)  a  college  or 
other  local  topic  involving  facts  familiar  to  the  community; 
and  (3)  the  topic  of  the  longer  assignment  then  in  hand. 
Of  these  the  most  generally  available  is  (3);  and  this  is 
the  more  useful  if  the  topic  is  one  of  a  series  or  group,  since 
then  the  writer  has  opportunity  for  more  extensive  knowl- 
edge and  perhaps  for  several  editorials  on  as  many  aspects. 
To  express  quickly,  cogently,  and  briefly  the  significance 
of  facts  that  are  also  being  handled  in  full  exposition  is  a 
practise  that  improves  both  forms. 

Analysis  of  carefully  selected  editorials  will  show  that 
conciseness  is  not  incompatible  with  concreteness.    Con- 


270  APPENDIX  A 

ciseness  that  is  gained  by  bareness  ceases  to  be  a  virtue. 
Rather  the  student  will  learn  that  wise  limitation  consists, 
not  in  reducing  many  points  to  a  summary,  but  in  focusing 
on  the  few  points,  perhaps  the  single  point,  that  he  can  in 
that  space  bring  home.  What  he  cannot  handle  concretely 
he  cannot  really  handle  at  all.  Analysis  of  good  examples 
will  show  further  that  prime  importance  attaches  to  salience, 
to  making  the  main  things  stand  out,  and  that  salience 
depends  much  on  cUnching  the  end  of  the  paragraph  (page 
51).  Further  analysis,  if  there  is  time,  may  well  bring 
out  by  comparison  the  variety  possible  in  method  and  in 
tone,  and  the  specific  means  of  adaptation  to  the  habitual 
readers  of  a  given  paper.  Study  of  the  editorial  page  of 
a  single  paper  for  at  least  a  fortnight  will  show  the  impor- 
tance of  steady  poHcy,  of  making  each  day's  editorials 
count  consecutively,  as  the  sucessive  speeches  in  a  debate 
build  up  a  case. 

ASSIGNMENTS  FOR  CHAPTER  III, 
§1,  ARGUMENT 

1.    Object 

Argument  is  studied  to  promote  (1)  keenness  and  alert- 
ness, indeed,  but  much  more  (2)  habits  of  sound  reasoning 
from  sound  evidence,  and  most  of  all  (3)  discernment  of 
large  underlying  relations.  It  should  never,  except  for 
the  temporary  purposes  of  analysis,  be  separated  from 
persuasion.  The  ultimate  object  of  every  real  argument 
is  to  bring  knowledge  to  bear  on  people,  to  win  assent,  to 
contribute  to  the  spread  of  truth. 

2.     Conditions 

A  course  in  argument,  whether  long  and  independent 
or  short  and  contributory,  yields  most  when  it  (1)  is  both 


APPENDIX  A  271 

oral  and  written,  and  (2)  gives  time  for  thorough  prepara- 
tion. Even  as  one  part  of  the  freshman  course  —  and  it 
should  be  a  part  of  every  freshman  course  —  argument 
should  include  debate  and  should  not  handle  more  topics 
than  can  be  really  investigated  in  the  time.  In  college 
conditions  the  minimum  time  for  any  real  control  of  a  real 
subject  is  a  month;  and  full  reaHzation  of  the  educational 
values  suggests  for  a  freshman  rather  two  months.  Argu- 
ment should  proceed  in  part  orally,  not  only  for  the  reasons 
shown  in  §  3  (6)  of  assignments  in  connection  with  Chapter 
I,  but  further  because  it  is  essentially  social.  Men  usually 
argue  together  and  find  truth  through  conflict.  Written 
argument  emerges  from  oral  discussion  more  real  and  vital 
than  that  which  is  excogitated  in  sohtude.  Pedagogically, 
moreover,  argument  gives  the  best  of  all  opportunities  for 
class  work.  Cooperation,  besides  being  natural  to  research 
into  public  questions,  stimulates  the  individual  by  respon- 
sibility; and  competition  adds  zest  to  the  searching  chal- 
lenges of  rebuttal.  Ideally,  then,  the  whole  roomful  should 
be  engaged  simultaneously  on  a  single  proposition,  and 
should  stay  by  it  till  it  has  been  threshed  out.  Coopera- 
tion makes  possible  by  division  of  labor  more  extensive 
and  thorough  research  than  could  be  asked  of  a  student 
working  alone.  Nor  does  it  preclude  for  any  one,  if  the 
assignments  are  well  gauged,  the  necessity  of  knowing  the 
whole  field.  Every  fact,  every  inference,  that  he  finally 
decides  to  be  vital  he  will  have  time  and  opportunity  to 
verify  or  test  for  himself.  Indeed,  his  final  "brief"  is  by 
this  plan  usually  the  more  extensive,  since  it  includes  ma- 
terial that  he  might  by  himself  have  overlooked.  What 
is  true  for  a  roomful  is  equally  true,  of  course,  for  such  a 
smaller  group  —  ten  or  twelve  —  as  may  in  some  cases  be 
more  practicable. 


272  APPENDIX  A 


3.     Method 


The  method  elaborated  in  the  next  section  is  adaptable 
to  various  class  conditions.  Probably  few  freshman  courses 
can  follow  it  in  every  detail,  and  the  detail  is  given  merely 
for  clearness;  but  it  has  been  thoroughly  tested  by  several 
years'  experience  in  the  teaching  of  argument  as  part, 
roughly  the  third  quarter,  of  a  freshman  course.  The 
essential  stages  are  as  follows : 

(a)  announcement  of  a  common  topic  for  discussion  (not  yet  a 
proposition)  known  to  be  of  large  interest  and  known  to  contain 
a  debatable  proposition,  i.e.,  a  proposition  still  in  dispute  and  not 
too  heavily  weighted  on  one  side; 

(6)  oral  and  written  reports  (five  minutes),  mainly  of  information, 
on  distinct  points  shown  to  be  relevant,  with  submission  of  card 
notes  and  the  beginnings  of  a  bibliography,  i.e.,  a  list  of  books 
and  articles  tested  for  their  value  as  sources  (each  bibhographical 
card  should  contain  a  brief  indication  (1)  of  what  the  book  mainly 
supplies  and  (2)  of  what  is  the  author's  right  to  be  heard.) ; 

(c)  oral  and  written  review  of  the  preliminary  material,  to  fore- 
cast emerging  issues  and  suggest  a  proposition; 

{d)  the  proposition  propounded  in  various  forms  and  settled 
in  the  form  that  seems  to  divide  most  squarely  and  most  deeply; 

(e)  informal  debates  (five-minute  speeches)  followed  by  oral 
summaries  of  issues,  written  reviews  (400-500  words),  and  short 
"briefs,"  the  common  bibliography  meantime  revised  and  in- 
creased and  the  individual  student's  notes  controlled  from  time 
to  time; 

(/)  practice  in  rebuttal,  with  re-defining  of  issues; 

(g)  organized  debates  managed  by  a  student  captain  on  each  side 
and  planned  to  fit  each  speech  (ten  minutes)  into  a  consecutive  case; 

(h)  a  final  exhaustive  "brief"  for  either  side,  with  complete  list 
of  all  sources  used  and  with  marginal  citation  of  volume  and  page 
in  each  case.  As  a  preface  to  the  "brief"  proper  there  should  be 
a  purely  expository  statement  of  facts  and  a  concise  sunmiary  of 
what  each  student  finds  to  be  the  main  issues. 


APPENDIX  A  273 

Throughout  all  these  stages  each  student  has  been  read- 
ing for  facts,  accumulating  and  revising  his  own  notes,  con- 
tributing to  the  growing  common  bibliography,  and  sketching 
and  revising  his  own  brief. 

4.    Specimen  Calendar 

First  Week.  Announcement  of  the  topic,  our  international  policy 
as  affected  by  our  interests  in  Latin  America.  Oral  reports  (five 
minutes,  some  afterwards  written):  Our  Commerce  with  Brazil, 
The  Venezuela  Protest,  The  Pan-American  Union,  Differences  be- 
tween the  Northern  and  the  Southern  Countries  of  South  America, 
The  Monroe  Doctrine,  Are  the  Latin-American  Governments 
Really  Republics?  Intervention  in  San  Domingo,  etc.,  etc.  Each 
address  must  focus  on  some  interest  of  ours.  The  field  of  in- 
vestigation as  it  is  progressively  defined  may  be  divided  for 
the  next  series  of  reports,  each  student  taking  one  country, 
phase,  or  aspect.  Though  argument  is  not  excluded,  the  constant 
main  object  is  to  put  before  the  class  pertinent  information.  The 
merit  of  a  report  is  immediately  tested  by  its  usefulness  to  the 
class. 

Second  Week.  Focusing  of  these  and  other  reports.  Have  we 
an  international  poficy?  What  are  our  interests  in  Latin  America? 
What  should  they  be?  Why?  What  is  the  Monroe  Doctrine? 
Is  it  only  a  vague  tradition,  or  does  it  involve  a  settled  principle? 
Oral  and  written  summaries  and  forecasts.  The  proposition, 
The  United  States  should  maintain  the  Monroe  Doctrine. 
Third  and  Fourth  Weeks.  Informal  debates,  each  with  a  closing 
speech  devoted  entirely  to  reviewing  and  bringing  out  the  largest 
considerations.  Oral  discussion  of  the  issues.  Written  reviews 
and  proposals  for  more  vital  debate  on  either  side. 
Fifth  Week.  Oral  and  written  rebuttals  of  strongest  arguments, 
each  finally  related  to  some  issue.  This  needs  separate  practise 
and  specific  instruction.  (See  page  143.)  For  instance,  it  is 
maintained  on  the  negative  that  the  Monroe  Doctrine  is  based 
on  a  theory  of  isolation  no  longer  tenable.  A  rebuts  by  urging 
that  our  isolation  is  still  effective  as  against  European  attack 


274  APPENDIX  A 

and  European  alliances,  and  that  the  American  continents  are 
still  separated  from  Europe  by  fundamental  differences  in  poUtical 
ideals.  B  rebuts  the  same  argument  by  admitting  that  we  are 
no  longer  isolated,  and  contending  that  for  this  very  reason  we 
need  to  maintain  the  Monroe  Doctrine  as  a  defensive  poUcy.  G 
rebuts  the  same  argument  by  urging  that  such  delimitation  of 
spheres  of  influence  as  is  proclaimed  by  the  Monroe  Doctrine  is 
vital  to  the  peace  of  the  world,  and  that  the  lack  of  it  opens  such 
dangers  of  war  as  are  seen  in  the  Ballcans  and  in  China.  Which 
of  these  lines  of  rebuttal  is  the  strongest?  Of  course,  the  one 
chosen  later  for  organized  debate  must  conform  to  the  whole  case; 
but  meantime  the  testing  of  rebuttals  by  comparison  will  directly 
promote  discernment  of  what  the  whole  case  should  be. 
Sixth  and  Seventh  Weeks.  Two  organized  debates  according  to 
some  adaptation  of  intercollegiate  rules.  The  main  objects  are  to 
construct  a  coherent  case  and  to  maintain,  reestablish,  or  revise 
it.  Two  consecutive  hours,  if  they  can  be  arranged,  should  sup- 
plant for  the  time  the  regular  single  recitation  hours.  An  organ- 
ized, consecutive  debate  can  hardly  be  developed  in  less  than  an 
hour  and  a  half;  and  there  should  be  time  to  hand  down  a  decision 
with  criticism  and  advice.  In  order  to  reach  every  student,  it 
may  be  necessary  to  divide  the  class  into  squads,  and  perhaps 
advisable  also  to  relieve  the  captain  from  speaking,  to  appoint 
a  bibliographer  for  each  squad,  and  to  have  each  part  assigned  to 
two  students,  of  whom  one  is  to  make  the  longer  argument,  the 
other  the  rejoinder  in  the  same  field,  and  either  to  be  ready  for 
either  task.  In  the  second  debate,  which  is  always  desired  and 
always  better  than  the  first,  the  assignments  can  be  shifted.  Such 
temporary  readjustment  of  the  college  schedule,  even  if  compli- 
cated and  difficult,  is  worth  more  than  it  costs.  General  directions 
are  given  in  the  section  on  debate  (pages  140-147);  and  further 
suggestions  will  be  found  in  the  Educational  Review  for  December, 
1911,  "Intercollegiate  Debate." 

Eighth  Week.  Final  "brief."  The  full  value  of  this  sort  of 
analysis  is  reahzed  best  after  extensive  oral  discussion;  and  the 
"brief"  is  not  effective  as  an  outhne  to  speak  from  (see  pages 
13-4-135). 


APPENDIX  A  275 

5.    Further  Assignments  for  Writing 

Further  assignments  for  writing  in  this  field  may  well 
take  their  cue  from  the  newspaper  in  order  to  insure  adapta- 
tion. The  written  ** forensic"  covering  the  whole  question 
is  often  a  dry  enumeration  of  the  points  of  the  "brief" 
because  it  is  addressed  to  no  one  in  particular,  is  not  written 
to  be  really  read.  Better  assignments  are  supplement 
articles  and  editorials,  the  one  extensive  and  largely  ex- 
pository, the  other  intensive  and  often  urgently  persuasive, 
both  addressed  directly  to  the  public.  A  supplement 
article  should  be  on  some  part  or  phase  of  the  subject,  not 
on  the  whole,  should  be  controlled  by  a  single  main  idea, 
and  should  be  abundantly  concrete.  The  editorial  is  the 
most  generally  effective  form  of  written  argument,  and  is 
the  more  instructive  as  a  model  when  it  is  gauged  to  im- 
mediate persuasion.  It  should  be  studied  in  examples 
chosen  generally  for  consecutiveness  and  concreteness, 
but  exhibiting  considerable  variety  in  tone  and  method. 
Comparison  of  the  morning's  leading  editorials  on  a  common 
topic  disputed  at  the  time  may  be  made  specific  as  to 
methods  of  persuasion. 

ASSIGNMENTS  FOR  CHAPTER  IV, 
DESCRIPTION 

Assignments  in  description  should  be  short  (150-300 
words,  with  the  norm  about  200)  and  frequent,  at  least 
three  a  week,  better  daily.  Extended  description,  espe- 
cially at  first,  too  readily  lapses  into  inferior  exposition  or 
inferior  story,  and  meantime  obscures  the  essential  values. 
From  the  beginning  students  should  be  not  only  permitted, 
but  urged  to  describe  by  narrating. 

The  values  of  this  kind  of  writing  may  be  profitably 
sought  in  the  order  of  Chapter  IV:  (1)  realization  by  physical 


276  APPENDIX  A 

sensations,  (2)  interpretation,  or  significance,  (3)  movement. 
At  first,  when  the  main  effort  is  for  the  primary  essential, 
concrete  expression,  the  form  of  the  whole  will  be  sufficiently 
guided  by  the  intention  to  leave  a  single  impression.  This 
may  be  emphasized  at  need  by  saying:  "Decide  what 
your  last  sentence  is  to  be  before  you  write  your  first. '* 
No  other  consideration  of  form  is  really  vital  at  the  start. 
Students  will  do  better  at  first  —  and  afterward  too  — 
with  people  than  with  things,  with  motion,  gesture,  sound 
than  with  still  life. 

When  a  habit  of  concrete  expression  is  fairly  begun,  the 
next  stage,  unity  of  impression,  is  promoted  by  seeking 
critical  situations,  moments  in  which  characteristic  details 
are  thickest  or  actions  come  to  a  head.  Obvious  instances 
are  the  last  five  minutes  at  the  glove  counter  just  before 
the  store  closes,  the  opening  of  college  morning  chapel, 
the  final  taking  of  the  vote  at  a  stormy  meeting,  the  noon 
rush  in  a  down-town  restaurant.  Negatively  the  counsel 
is  to  limit  the  time  and  place;  positively  it  is  to  be  on  the 
look-out  for  eloquent  moments.  This  is  one  of  the  best 
ways  to  discover  stories  of  greater  length.  Meantime 
it  teaches  the  second  essential  of  imaginative  composition, 
intensity  through  focus. 

The  third  stage,  movement-,  is  sufficiently  detailed  on 
pages  179-192. 

Short  themes  of  this  sort  may  be  assigned  at  any  point 
in  the  course  where  there  is  time  to  pursue  them  consec- 
utively enough  to  follow  these  three  stages  in  actual  writing 
accompanied  by  class  study.  They  may  in  some  cases  be 
used  for  variety,  freedom,  and  concreteness  between  such 
longer  assignments  as  are  suggested  for  Chapters  I  and  II. 
So  assigned,  they  must  be  sharply  distinguished  from  these 
in  object  and  method.  Whether  used  earUer  or  not,  fre- 
quent short  descriptions  should  always  be  assigned  for  at 


APPENDIX  A  277 

least  the  fortnight  preceding  the  study  of  more  sustained 
narrative.  They  are  a  natural  gateway  to  story-writing. 
Meantime  they  will  often  be  found  worth  continuing  for 
themselves  throughout  a  month;  and  achievement  in 
them  is  generally  far  higher  than  in  story-writing. 


ASSIGNMENTS  FOR  CHAPTER  V, 
NARRATIVE  MOVEMENT 

Sustained  narrative  movement  is  not  to  be  demanded 
of  everybody  as  an  achievement;  but  it  is  worth  while  for 
every  college  student  as  an  experience.  Nothing  more 
directly  defines  and  enhances  appreciation  of  Uterature. 
Therefore  every  freshman  may  well  be  required  to  write 
one  story  of  about  a  thousand  words,  and  individual  stu- 
dents should  have  opportunity  to  write  others.  Though  nar- 
rative movement  should  be  both  definitely  taught  and 
definitely  attempted,  there  need  be  no  demand  for  the  in- 
vention of  plots.  A  situation  is  sufficient  if  it  gives  room 
for  the  presentation  of  character  in  action;  and  the  develop- 
ment of  it  into  a  story  has  plot  enough  if  the  action  is  focused 
and  is  continuous  up  to  some  definite  issue.  Some  students 
may  profitably  work  up  assigned  plots,  historical  incidents, 
or  such  summary  tales  as  abound  aUke  in  the  exempla  of 
the  middle  age  and  in  the  newspapers  of  to-day.  The 
project  for  a  story  should  be  announced,  orally  or  in  writing, 
far  enough  in  advance  to  permit  advice.  It  should  never 
be  in  expository  "outUne,"  since  this  might  hamper  the 
narrative  movement;  but  it  should  hint  the  successive 
scenes,  or  stages  of  action,  and  clearly  indicate  the  climax. 

Obviously  the  writing  proposed  by  Chapters  IV,  V,  and 
VI  suggests  a  larger  use  of  models  than  that  for  the  preceding 
chapters,  and  a  correspondingly  larger  use  of  the  class 
hour  for  analysis  of  literature  and  for  imitation  of  certain 


278  APPENDIX  A 

literary  processes.  The  correlation  with  literature  thus 
opened  is  so  extensive  and  various  in  possibilities  as  quite 
to  transcend  any  single  course.  But  through  the  choice 
of  models  for  specific  and  immediate  purposes  much  can  be 
done  to  suggest  highly  interesting  future  studies  aUke  in 
English  and  in  other  literatures.  For  current  models, 
whereas  newspapers  are  more  adaptable  to  the  purposes  of 
Chapters  I,  II,  and  III,  magazines  are  conversely  better 
in  connection  with  Chapters  IV  and  V. 

•ASSIGNMENTS  FOR  CHAPTER  VI, 
DRAMATIC  MOVEMENT 

Play-writing  has  no  place  in  a  general  freshman  scheme. 
Nevertheless  the  interest  in  drama  is  already  so  extensive, 
and  is  spreading  so  rapidly,  and  so  much  specific  training 
in  production  and  even  in  composition  is  already  given  by 
some  schools,  that  every  freshman  class  contains  a  few 
students  who  can  profitably  write  one-act  plays.  For 
such  students  the  general  schedule  should  be  modified 
enough  to  let  them  pursue  their  bent.  In  fact,  no  freshman 
schedule  should  be  inflexible;  for  the  teaching  of  composi- 
tion is  very  largely  the  teaching  of  individuals.  Moreover, 
the  ends  proposed  for  the  majority  through  story- writing 
will  in  these  few  cases  be  gained  more  quickly  through 
play-writing. 


APPENDIX  B    - 
THE  PREPARATION  OF  MANUSCRIPT 

Manuscript  easy  to  read  is  like  courteous  address.  In 
both  cases  usage  is  none  the  less  important  when  its  grounds 
are  merely  social;  for  to  disregard  it  is  to  risk  being  dis- 
regarded. But,  in  the  case  of  manuscript  at  least,  usage 
is  also  grounded  in  economy. 

Usage  expects  typewriting  of  business  letters  and  of 
manuscript  for  pubUcation.  Handwriting  in  either  of  these 
cases  is  now  so  nearly  obsolete  as  to  need  for  ordinary  con- 
sideration quite  extraordinary  pains.  Therefore  entrance 
into  college  is  a  good  occasion  to  weigh  the  advantages  of 
mastering  a  typewriter  for  immediate  use  in  college  tasks 
as  preliminary  to  later  use  in  affairs.  For  many  students 
typewriting  can  be  used  in  ways  enough,  will  save  time 
enough,  and  will  produce  results  enough  in  legibihty  and 
convenience,  to  make  it  a  good  investment.  To  say  nothing 
of  outlines  and  digests  for  one's  own  use,  typed  manuscript 
is  preferred  in  many  college  departments  and  will  probably 
become  before  long  a  college  custom.  Mastery  is  more 
than  the  ability  to  copy  or  classify;  it  means  actual  com- 
position; but  on  these  terms  it  seems  increasingly  worth 
while. 

1.    Business  Letters 

In  business  letters  the  importance  of  manuscript  form 
and  style  is  immediate  and  urgent.  It  is  the  initial  means 
of  persuasion,  the  first  —  and  sometimes  the  last  —  im- 
pression of  the  writer.    Though  the  composition  of  business 


280  APPENDIX  B 

letters  is  too  large  ^  to  be  discussed  here,  and  belongs  rather 
to  school  than  to  college  study,  it  shows  so  strikingly  the 
significance  of  externals  and  the  economy  of  certain  habits 
that  it  is  worth  reviewing  in  these  aspects. 

(a)  Spacing.  The  top  and  the  bottom  space  are  so 
gauged  to  the  length  as  to  frame  the  letter  well  without 
either  crowding  or  disproportion.  Within  the  letter,  spacing 
is  for  salience,  i.e.,  to  make  the  parts  stand  out  separately. 
Thus  two  routine  rules  are:  (1)  to  give  a  separate  line  to 
each  item  in  a  list,  and  (2)  to  use  between  paragraphs  twice 
the  space  used  between  lines.  No  other  form  of  composi- 
tion is  more  attentive  to  the  marking  of  paragraphs. 

(6)  Reference.  No  less  attention  is  paid  to  the  adjusting 
of  a  paragraph,  and  especially  of  the  whole  letter,  to  its 
place  (page  44).  A  business  letter  being  usually  one  of 
a  series,  its  opening  sentences  always  both  (1)  refer  to  the 
previous  correspondence  and  (2)  announce  its  own  subject 
or  message.  One  immediate  use  of  this  habit  is  for  filing, 
and  business  fifing  systems  may  be  instructive  to  college 
students;  but  its  larger  significance  is  for  taking  hold  with 
courteous  clearness  and  prompt  vigor.  The  clumsy  and 
diffuse  old  "Yours  of  the  23d  at  hand,  and  in  reply  would 
say"  is  no  longer  tolerated.  Instead,  the  opening  is  made 
to  tell  both  the  connection  and  the  message  at  once,  and 
usually  in  a  single  sentence. 

Your  obliging  order  of  the  23rd  inst.  has  been  shipped  by 
American  Express  from  this  office,  except  the  band-saw  *247, 
which  should  reach  you  by  the  same  express  in  a  few  days  from  our 
factory  at  Oakville.  .  .  . 

The  important  charge  made  by  the  American   Security  League 

*  See  Effective  Btisiness  Letters  by  Edward  Hall  Gardner,  New  York, 
1915.  Forms  of  address,  abbreviations  of  titles,  etc.,  will  be  found  in 
a  "style"  book  (see  the  footnote  to  section  2  below)  or  large  dictionary. 


APPENDIX  B  281 

through  your  letter  of  August  30  was  investigated  by  this  Bureau 
at  once  with  the  following  results.  .  .  . 

In  the  matter  of  discharging  your  bond  to  the  Company 

we  beg  to  add  to  our  advice  of  July  30  that  an  express  agreement 
by  both  parties  to  waive  judicial  accounting  will  satisfy  the  Court 
of  Probate,  and  consequently  the  Company,  on  both  points  raised 
in  your  inquiry  of  August  1.  We  therefore  included  a  waiver 
clause  in  the  release  enclosed  herewith.  .  .  . 

The  nomination  tendered  through  your  touching  and  stirring 
letter  of  yesterday  I  must  accept  at  once  as  nothing  less  than  a 
charge  to  make  this  whole  state  sympathize  with  the  determina- 
tion of  the  eastern  counties.  .  .  . 

The  reference  and  announcement  that  are  of  cardinal 
importance  for  the  opening  of  the  first  paragraph  guide 
also  the  openings  of  the  other  paragraphs  in  so  far  as  each 
is  a  stage  of  progress.  Many  letters  are  limited  to  one 
paragraph.  In  those  of  greater  length,  reference  to  a  pre- 
ceding paragraph  is  the  less  important  the  more  nearly  the 
letter  consists  of  an  enumeration.  But  since  mere  enumera- 
tion is  often  as  ineffective  in  a  letter  as  in  an  article,  the 
best  business  letters  of  any  length  show  in  brief  and  strik- 
ing form  the  value  of  progressive  order  and,  for  marking 
this,  the  importance  of  giving  salience  through  paragraph 
emphasis  (page  51). 

(c)  Style.  Every  business  letter,  being  a  study  in  per- 
suasion, is  a  study  in  style.  The  tone  of  the  whole,  the 
choice  of  strong  concrete  or  general  abstract  terms  in  a 
given  sentence  —  such  matters  show  style  as  adaptation. 
But  they  will  not  prevail,  nor  even  arrive,  except  through 
the  first  impression  of  externals.  The  look  of  a  letter, 
the  ease  of  reading  it,  the  courtesy  and  promptness  of  the 
opening  sentence  —  these  determine  its  reception.  Usage 
may,  indeed,  be  followed  quite  conventionally.  Even  so 
it  at  least  shows  that  the  writer  knows  the  way  of  the  world. 


282  APPENDIX  B 

It  may,  on  the  other  hand,  be  adapted  so  individually  as 
to  convey  a  distinct  impression  of  the  writer.  But  however 
followed,  it  is  binding.  Business  letter-writing  constitutes 
a  course  in  composition  as  social  adjustment. 

(d)  Dictation.  Very  generally  already,  and  increasingly 
from  year  to  year,  the  composition  of  business  letters  is 
oral;  and  there  is  no  better  single  training  in  oral  com- 
position. Though  this  practise  is  not  open  generally  to 
college  students,  it  should  be  seized  incidentally  whenever 
it  arises.  It  will  give  much  the  same  variety  as  brief  edi- 
torials during  a  period  of  longer  assignments.  Typically 
less  amplified  than  oral  address  to  the  pubUc,  dictation 
of  business  letters  nevertheless  demands  consecutiveness 
and  directly  teaches  point,  or  focus.  Thus  it  may  serve 
to  prepare  for  the  dictation  of  articles,  interviews,  and 
editorials.  All  these  forms  are  now  often  dictated  by 
professional  writers  for  the  press,  and  revised  on  the  stenog- 
rapher's typed  sheets.  While  he  is  learning  written  com- 
position on  the  typewriter,  any  student  with  the  opportunity, 
therefore,  may  vary  and  extend  his  training  by  dictation. 

2.     Copy  for  the  Printer 

Though  the  rules  below  apply  specifically  to  manuscript 
for  pubHcation,  they  apply  generally  to  all  manuscript 
that  is  to  be  given  out  for  any  purpose  whatsoever.  More 
technical  and  professional  rules  for  special  purposes, 
together  with  much  tabulated  information  about  book- 
making,  will  be  found  in  the  ''style"  books.^    The  manu- 

1  The  most  comprehensive  of  these  is  Style  Book,  a  compilation  of 
rules  governing  executive.  Congressional,  and  departmental  printingf 
including  the  Congressional  Record,  Washington,  Government  Print- 
ing Office.  The  most  compact  is  Rules  for  Compositors  and  Readers 
at  the  University  Press,  Oxford,  by  Horace  Hart,  London,  1914  (23d 
edition).    It  prescribes  a  few  speUings  not  according  to  American  use. 


APPENDIX  B  283 

script  form  prescribed  by  a  particular  department  or  office 
must  of  course  be  followed  absolutely  in  that  case. 

(a)  Paper  should  have  weight  enough  to  preclude  tearing 
or  crumpling,  but  not  enough  to  be  bulky.  Most  writers 
and  printers  prefer  white;  but  some  departments  and 
offices  find  a  slight  tint,  especially  buff,  easier  for  the  eyes. 
The  prevalent  size  is  that  of  a  business  letter  sheet,  8|  by 
11  inches,  which  has  the  advantage  of  fitting  standard 
files.  Half-sheets  are  acceptable  if  they  are  not  crowded. 
Anything  smaller  is  a  nuisance.  Every  sheet,  however 
little  it  contains,  must  be  of  the  same  size.  Copy  should 
be  sent  flat,  not  folded  nor  rolled. 

(6)  Spacing  should  be  generous,  since  clearness  must  be 
absolute.  Use  only  one  side  of  a  sheet.  Leave  a  wide 
and  uniform  margin  at  the  left.  Paper  at  any  price  is 
cheaper  than  compositors'  time.  Remember  that  the  reader, 
whether  in  a  college  or  a  publishing  office,  will  judge 
your  manuscript  first  by  its  look.  Make  it  show  that  you 
know  how. 

Indentation  of  paragraphs  must  be  unmistakable. 
Printers  prefer  to  have  each  sheet  begin  a  paragraph. 
Quoted  passages,  too,  are  now  usually  set  oiff  by  indentation 
and  also  by  using  a  shorter  space  between  lines.  Thus 
standing  out  conspicuously  from  the  context,  they  need  no 
quotation  marks. 

In  typing  a  play  use  between  speeches  twice  the  space 
used  between  lines,  capitafize  the  speaker's  name  in  the 
middle  of  the  sheet,  and  underline  in  red,  or  type  with  a 
red  ribbon,  all  stage  directions. 

(c)  Numbering  must  be  carefully  consecutive.  New 
sheets  added  to  a  manuscript  of  considerable  length  may 

Other  "style"  books  are  issued  by  the  University  of  Chicago  Press 
(3d  edition,  1911),  by  the  Columbia  University  Printing  OflBce  (1917), 
and  by  a  few  large  printing  houses. 


284  APPENDIX  B 

be  numbered  7a,  7b,  etc.;  but  in  that  case  the  preceding 
sheet  7  had  better  be  marked  Followed  by  sheets  7a  &  7b. 
Conversely,  where  a  sheet  is  suppressed,  the  following 
sheet  should  read  23  {sheet  22  omitted).  But  manuscripts 
of  ordinary  length  should  obviate  misunderstanding  by 
renumbering  the  whole.  Many  writers  preclude  mislaying 
by  putting  their  initials  at  the  left  corner  of  each  sheet. 

An  insert  of  more  than  a  few  words  had  better  be  made 
on  a  separate  sheet,  not  crowded  into  the  margin.  It 
should  be  marked  Insert  on  sheet  19,  and  should  immedi- 
ately follow  that  sheet.  The  exact  place  of  insertion  should 
be  indicated  by  a  conspicuous  caret  in  the  text  and  by  a  note 
in  the  margin.  Insert  copy  on  next  sheet.  This  rule  appUes 
to  inserts  of  charts,  tables,  or  pictures.  If  the  insert  is 
a  separate  paragraph,  it  had  better  begin  with  a  paragraph 
sign. 

Footnotes  should  be  numbered  consecutively  through 
the  whole  article  or  chapter.  The  printer  can  thus  locate 
them  more  easily,  and  will  attend  to  their  final  places  and 
numbers  on  the  page  proof.  A  footnote  is  usually  placed 
in  manuscript,  not  at  the  foot  of  the  sheet,  but  immediately 
below  the  passage  to  which  it  refers.  It  is  set  off  by  dotted 
lines  above  and  below  it  and  by  shorter  spaces  between 
its  lines,  so  that  it  stands  out  on  the  sheet..  In  the  rare 
cases  where  a  footnote  is  long,  it  should  be  written  on  a 
separate  insert  sheet,  as  above. 

The  first  sheet  of  a  manuscript  should  show:  (1)  at  the 
top,  the  exact  number  of  sheets  and  the  approximate  number 
of  words,  (2)  the  title  in  capitals,  (3)  the  writer's  name  as 
it  is  to  appear  in  print  or  to  be  located  in  a  college  Ust,  (4) 
in  the  case  of  a  fairly  long  manuscript  submitted  either  to 
a  publisher  or  in  a  college  course  where  it  is  not  a  general 
assignment,  a  concise  account  (100  words)  of  the  scope 
and   method.    Nothing   else   should   appear   on   the   first 


APPENDIX  B  286 

sheet,  except,  in  college  courses,  the  name  of  the  course 
and  the  date. 

(d)  Uniformity  covers  spacing,  capitals,  punctuation, 
spelling,  numbers,  headings,  quotations,  citations,  and  the 
use  of  terms,  especially  foreign  and  technical  terms.  In 
each  of  these  matters  one  system  or  usage  must  be  main- 
tained throughout. 

(e)  Proof-reading.  The  conventional  signs  for  the  cor- 
rection of  proof  may  be  easily  learned  from  any  large  dic- 
tionary or  any  "style"  book.  The  better  the  manuscript, 
the  fewer  corrections  will  be  necessary  in  proof.  Such 
changes  as  are  necessary  should  all  be  made  in  "galley" 
proof;  for  additions  or  excisions  in  page  proof  may  involve 
the  resetting  of  several  pages,  or  even  of  a  whole  chapter. 
An  insert  in  galley  proof  should  be  made  in  the  way  shown 
above  (§  c).  It  should  be  pasted,  not  pinned,  to  the  galley 
sheet  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  hide  the  office  marks. 

3.    Punctuation  and  Capitals 

Punctuation  is  often  made  to  seem  so  comphcated  that 
it  may  well  be  reviewed  in  its  essentials,  which  are  both 
few  and  clear. 

(a)  CONVENTIONAL  RULES  OF  PUNCTUATION 

A  period  after  an  abbreviation  is  still  the  rule;  but  British 
use  shows  a  tendency  to  omit  the  period  (Mr,  Dr)  after  the 
commonest  abbreviations. 

A  colon  (1)  stands  at  the  end  of  a  sentence  introducing 
an  extended  quotation.  Less  often  both  a  colon  and  a  dash 
are  used  in  this  case.  The  quotation  is  indented  as  a  para- 
graph and  set  off  by  single  spacing.  Thus  distinguished, 
it  hardly  needs  marks  of  quotation. 

(2)  A  colon  stands  before  such  an  enumeration  of  particu- 
lars as  requires  semicolons  between  the  particulars. 


286  APPENDIX  B 

The  capital  leading  questions  ...  are  these  two:  first,  whether 
you  ought  to  concede;  and,  secondly,  what  your  concession  ought 
to  be. 

(3)  A  colon  stands  at  the  beginning  of  a  letter  after  a 
salutation  consisting  of  two  or  more  parts. 

Messrs.  Black  and  White, 
Gentlemen: 

A  salutation  of  one  line  {My  dear  Mr.  Black)  more  usually 
has  a  comma,  but  may  have  a  colon. 

Commas  (1)  divide  a  series  of  words  without  conjunctions. 

Barrels,  boxes,  and  crates  floated  downstream. 
He  swerved,  slipped,  sprawled. 

If  a  conjunction  is  used  between  the  last  two  of  the  series, 
the  dividing  comma  is  retained;  but  the  comma  after  the 
whole  series  is  omitted. 

Barrels,  boxes,  and  crates  floated  downstream. 

If  the  series  is  in  pairs,  commas  separate  the  pairs. 

Great  and  small,  rich  and  poor,  cultured  and  uncultured,  rubbed 
elbows  in  that  crowd. 

(2)  A  comma  is  used  before  a  quotation  of  a  single  sen- 
tence, which  is  set  off,  not  by  indentation,  but  by  quotation 
marks. 

It  was  Daniel  Webster  who  said,  "I  am  a  Constitutional  Whig  " 

An  exclamation  point  or  an  interrogation  point  stands 
after  a  part  or  after  the  whole  sentence  according  to  whether 
the  part  or  the  whole  is  exclaimed  or  asked.  In  either  case 
it  supersedes  any  other  punctuation. 

Heavens!  can  this  be  true? 
What?  Clap  him  into  jail! 


APPENDIX  B  287 

Quotation  marks  are  used  for  the  titles  of  shorter  works, 
such  as  single  poems,  or  of  the  parts  of  longer  works.  The 
title  of  a  whole  book  is  more  usually  indicated  in  manu- 
script by  underUning,  in  print  by  italics. 

Quotations  of  some  length  are  now  usually  set  off,  not 
by  quotation  marks,  but  by  indentation  and  shorter  line 
spacing.  Where  this  is  not  done,  a  quotation  with  a  quota- 
tion is  indicated  by  single  marks  (***  '"). 

Marks  of  parenthesis  are  no  longer  common,  except  to 
insert  short  instances. 

(6)    PRINCIPLES  OF  PUNCTUATION 

Except  in  these  few  conventions,  punctuation  is  regu- 
lated by  syntax. 

Thus  the  use  of  any  mark  but  a  period  at  the  end  of  a 
sentence  is  an  error,  not  of  punctuation,  but  of  grammar, 
a  failure  to  distinguish  a  sentence  from  a  clause,  and  is  to 
be  remedied  accordingly. 

Thus  again  the  dash,  since  it  marks  a  place  where  the 
construction  is  broken,  i.e.,  either  interrupted  or  left  in- 
complete, can  be  used  rarely. 

The  colon,  except  in  the  conventional  uses  explained 
above,  is  obsolete.  In  older  prose  it  marked  a  unit  midway 
between  a  sentence  and  a  clause;  in  prose  of  to-day  this 
unit  is  no  longer  recognized. 

The  semicolon  is  generally  confined  to  separating  the 
parts  of  compound  sentences.  Its  use  being  generally  to 
indicate  that  the  parts  between  which  it  stands  are  co- 
ordinate, it  hardly  occurs  in  complex  sentences.  But  not 
all  compound  sentences  have  semicolons.  The  semicolon 
is  used  to  separate  parts  which  have  commas  within  them; 
or  conversely,  when  the  parts  of  a  sentence  have  commas 
within  them,  these  parts  have  a  semicolon  between  them. 
The  use  of  the  semicolon  is  to  distinguish  the  larger  divisions 


288  APPENDIX  B 

of  a  sentence   from  the  smaller   divisions,  the  coordinate 
parts  from  the  subordinate  parts. 

If  he  has  any  evidence,  let  him  produce  it;  if  not,  let  him  shut 
his  mouth. 

Where  there  are  no  commas  within  the  parts,  a  comma 
is  now  generally  sufficient  between  them;  but  many  good 
writers  still  prefer  a  semicolon  between  the  parts  of  all 
compound  sentences  in  which  the  grammatical  subject  of  the 
second  part  is  different  from  that  of  the  first.  And  the  semi- 
colon is  generally  used  in  those  balanced  compound  sentences 
which  dispense  with  a  conjunction. 

The  power  of  French  literature  is  in  its  prose  writers;  the 
power  of  English  Uterature  is  iu  its  poets. 

Except  in  cases,  like  the  example,  where  the  parts  clearly 
balance  against  each  other  to  express  a  single  idea,  such 
sentences  should  be  avoided.  Otherwise  there  is  danger 
of  merely  running  sentences  together  by  using  semicolons 
instead  of  periods. 

The  comma,  (1)  in  general,  is  omitted  or  inserted  accord- 
ing as  a  subordinate  part  is  grammatically  necessary  or 
not.  Omit  the  comma  between  parts  which  are  intended 
to  be  taken  together  as  one;  insert  the  comma  between 
parts  which  are  not  so  intended. 

(2)  In  particular,  a  relative  clause  is  or  is  not  set  off  by 
a  comma  according  as  it  is  intended  to  be  non-restrictive  or 
restrictive.    Compare  these  two  sentences: 

In  this  climate  there  is  no  opportunity  for  reading,  which  taxes 
the  mind. 

In  this  climate  there  is  no  opportunity  for  reading  which  taxes 
the  mind. 

The  former  means  that  there  is  no  opportunity  for  any 
reading,  since  all  reading  taxes  the  mind;   the  latter,  that 


APPENDIX  B  289 

there  is  no  opportunity  for  that  kind  of  reading  which  taxes 
the  mind,  i.e.,  for  hard  reading.  The  former  sentence 
completes  the  intended  sense  at  reading^  the  following 
clause  being  merely  an  added  explanation;  the  latter  sen- 
tence does  not  complete  the  intended  sense  until  the  end. 
In  the  former  the  which  clause  is  non-restrictive;  in  the 
latter,  restrictive. 

(3)  On  the  same  principle,  commas  set  off  parenthetical 
expresdons,  i.e.,  words,  phrases,  or  clauses  which  are  not 
necessary  to  complete  the  syntax  of  the  sentence: 

This,  my  friends,  is  the  whole  truth.  However  my  opponent 
may  storm,  he  cannot  add  one  relevant  fact.  If  he  brings  up  the 
traction  dispute,  remember  what  he  said  about  that  when  he  was 
not  a  candidate. 

This  passage  shows  that  the  rule  applies  to  adverbial 
clauses  of  condition,  cause,  or  exception  (introduced  by  t/, 
because,  unless,  though,  etc.),  but  not  to  clauses  like  the 
last  {when  he  was  not  a  candidate),  which  are  intended  re- 
strictively. 

A  parenthetical  expression  has  a  comma  after  it,  before 
it,  or  on  each  side,  merely  according  to  whether  it  stands 
at  the  beginning  of  the  sentence,  at  the  end,  or  in  the  midst. 

(c)    CAPITALS 

(1)  The  general  idea  of  capitals,  to  distinguish  certain 
words  conspicuously,  is  carried  out  in  English  by  distin- 
guishing not  only  proper  nouns,  but  also  proper  adjectives. 
Thus  Democratic  is  distinguished  from  democratic.  Catholic 
from  catholic,  as  the  Army  from  an  army  and  Mayor  Mitchel 
from  mayors  in  general. 

French  articles  and  prepositions  forming  part  of  a  name  or 
title  are  capitalized  when  used  without  the  name  or  title  preced- 
ing: La  VaUikre,  D'Avbigne,  Du  Camp;  but  Louise  de  la  VaUike, 


290  APPENDIX  B 

Agrippa  d'AvbignS,  Maxime  du  Camp.  Many  famous  surnames 
are  used  alone  without  the  preposition:  Balzac  {Honor 6  de  Balzac) , 
Saint-Pierre  {Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre). 

Van  is  capitalized  in  Dutch  names;  von  is  not  capitalized  in 
German  names. 

(2)  The  capitalization  of  North,  South,  East,  and  West 
when  they  refer  to  sections  of  a  country  is  Uke  that  of  com- 
mon place-names  when  they  immediately  precede  or  follow 
a  proper  place-name:  Lake  Erie,  the  Ohio  River. 

(3)  Titles  of  books  are  still  commonly  written  with 
capitals  for  all  the  important  words,  i.e.,  the  first  word 
and  all  other  words  except  prepositions,  conjunctions,  etc. 
{The  Advancement  of  Learning,  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities) ;  but 
the  usage  of  libraries  and  bibliographies  has  extended  the 
French  habit  of  capitalizing  only  the  first  word  {College 
manual  of  astronomy). 

(4)  The  capitalizing  of  all  names  of  God  is  often  extended 
to  pronouns;  but  many  writers  follow  the  usage  of  the 
King  James  Bible  and  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer  in 
writing  these  pronouns  with  a  small  letter. 

(5)  A  sentence  brought  within  a  sentence  by  ''direct 
discourse"  begins  with  a  capital. 

The  gentleman's  speeeh  amounts  to  asking,  Can  we  afford  to 
renominate  a  man  who  has  antagonized  these  powerful  interests? 
and  the  answer  is,  We  cannot  afford  to  nominate  any  one  but  the 
man  who  has  won  the  people  of  this  whole  state. 

"Indirect  discourse"  dispenses  with  capitals  by  reducing 
the  included  sentence  to  a  clause. 

The  gentleman's  speech  amounts  to  asking  whether  we  can 
afford  .  .  .  and  the  answer  is  that  we  cannot  afford.  .  . 

(6)  By  exception  following  older  usage,  formal  resolu- 
tions consisting  of  a  series  of  clauses  begin  each  clause  with 


APPENDIX  B  291 

a  capital,  and  also  each  whereas  and  resolved  introducing 
it. 

Whereas,  This  council  has  heard  with  profound  regret .  .  .  ;  and 
Whereas,  The  justice  of  the  demands  formulated  has  not  been 
questioned  .  .  .  ;  and 

Whereas,  The  urgency  .  .  .  ;  therefore  be  it 

Resolved,  That  this  council  hereby  .  .  .  ;  and  be  it  further 

Resolved,  That .  .  . 

Each  clause  is  also  indented  as  a  paragraph. 

For  the  use  of  capitals  in  abbreviations  see  the  list  of  ab- 
breviations in  any  large  dictionary  or  in  a  ** style''  book. 


INDEX 


Action  171-175,  188,  204,  219, 
222,  230,  231,  233-237,  241,  246 

Addams,  Jane,  Democracy  and 
Social  Ethics  65-67 

Addison,  Spectator  86-87,  90, 
169,203-205;  Cato  256 

iEsCHYLUS  231 

iEsop  196 

a  fortiori  130 

amplification    52,    90,    107,    138, 

17&-179,  208,  238,  248 
analogy  117,  127-130 
Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle  168,  210 
antecedent  action  181,   189,  206, 

207,  225 
antecedent  probability  118-119 
a  priori  96,  118 
argument  3,  4,   38,   68,   95-132, 

211,  270 
Aristotle,     Poetic     163,      176; 

Rhetoric  94,  120 
Arnold,  Matthew  92 
assignments   259 
attention  170-171,  177 
audience  29,  55,  87,  127,  136-138, 

140,  149,  151,228-237 
Austen,  Jane  179 
authority  15,  16,  99 

Bacon,  Essays  3,  86,  88-91 

balance  72-73 

Baldwin,  C.  S.,  American  Short 
SUxries  208;  The  English  Bible 
as  a  Guide  to  Writing  215;  In- 


troduction to  English  Medieval 

Literature    197;     Note    on    the 

History  Play  251 
ballads  178,  207,  225 
Beckford,  Vathek  187 
begging  the  question  150-151 
Beowulf  197-200 

Bernstein,  Henri,  Le  voleur  245 
Besier,  Rudolph,  Don  245 
Bible:     Genesis    182,    215,    220, 

229,    238,    246;     Deuteronomy 

182;     Judges   208;     1    Samuel 

209;    2  Samuel  130,  208,  209, 

213,  215-217;   Esther  194,  209, 

215,  229,  237;  Daniel  208,  215; 

St.    Matthew    130;     Acts    42, 

95;  Romans  48 
bibHography  20-21 
biography  4,  212 
Boccaccio,  Decameron  208 
Bossuet  148 

brief  100-112,  134^135,  155,  272 
Browne,    Sir    Thomas,    Religio 

Medial  69-71 
Browning,  Meeting  at  Night  161, 

178;   The  Pied  Piper  of  Hame- 

lin  187 
BuNNER,  H.  C,  The  Love-Letters 

of  Smith  218 
BuNYAN,   Pilgrim's  Progress  3 
Burke,  Conciliation  with  America 

63,  74,  153,  154 
Burroughs,   John,   Idyll  of  the 

Honey  Bee  185 


293 


294 


INDEX 


Cadence  59,  63,  64,  70,  72-73,  150 

Campbell,  Gboeqe,  Philosophy 
oj  Rhetoric  77 

caricature  176 

characterization  162, 166, 172, 175, 
195,  202-205,  211-212,  219-220, 
236,  254-255,  277 

charts  25-26,  125 

Chaucer,  Troilus  and  Criseyde 
161;  Canterbury  Tales  171-172, 
207,  208,  217 

chronicle  210 

Cicero,  De  Oratore  97 

circumstantial  evidence  126-127 

citation  20-21 

classification  18,  19,  21-26 

climax  76,  214,  217-218,  247 

coherence  39-55;  —  in  a  para- 
graph 62-71;  —  in  a  sentence 
57-58;  —  in  a  speech  134^135, 
149;  —  in  debate  147;  —  in 
story  179-192,  213,  221;  — in 
drama  239,  246 

Coleridge,  Ancient  Mariner  175, 
182,  224-225 

coUation  13,  14,  16,  17,  21 

comedy  228,  229,  230,  242 

communal  interest  87,  149,  230, 
231,  233 

complex  sentences  57-58 

complication  218-220 

compound  sentences  58 

conclusion  135-136,  144,  213, 
219-220,  239,  247-249 

concrete  30-32,  53,  78,  79,  85,  86, 
88,  151-155,  159-175;  193, 
194,  202,  208,  209,  221 

connectives  44-50,  64-68 

conversation  37,  250 

conviction  94;  see  argument 


copy  282 

crisis  178-179,  199,  204,  206-209, 

213-217,  224,  228,  229,  237-238, 

245,  249 
criticism  37,  90-92 
Cooper,  Pioneer  4 
cross-questioning  11,  13 

Dante,  Inferno  175 
Daudet,  Alphonse  218,  220 
debate  37,  140-147,  149,  273 
deduction  116-121      ' 
definition  24,  25,  97 
Defoe  167,  201-202,  214 
dmoHment  218-220,  248 
description  3,   4,   30-32,   34,   35, 

90,    129,    149,    159-192,    195, 

202,  204,  222,  275 
dialogue  188-189,  195,  207,  223- 

227,  230,  250-251 
Dickens  3,  176 
dictation  282 
diction  1,  2,  30,  32,  53,  76-85,  94, 

249-257 
dictionaries  80-84 
digest  19-20 
division  22-24,  107 
Douglas,    Stephen    A.,    Debate 

with  Lincoln  at  Galesburg,  10&- 

112 
drama  3,  82,  160,  161,  178,  200, 

204,  219,  220,  228-257,  278 
Du    Maurier,    George,    Peter 

Ibbetson  165-166 

Edinburgh  Review  91 
editorials  37,  156,  268,  275 
Emerson  69-71,  86 
emphasis  —  of   a   paragraph   30, 
50-52,  55,  281;  —  of  a  sentenoe 


INDEX 


295 


S9-76;  — in    story    195,    199, 

201,  204,  206,  214;  —  in  drama 

239 
enthymeme  120-121 
enumeration  26,  183,  188 
epic    197-199,  208,  233 
essay  8&-92,  203, 205,  268 
Euripides  231 
evidence  11,  13,  16,  98-99,  122- 

127,  145 
exempla  196,  222 
exordium  135-136 
exposition    3,    37-94,    113,    133, 

211,  240 

Facts  11-17,  98-99,  113-114,  122, 

145,211 
farce  219 

feeling  and  reason  93-95,  136 
Fielding  203-205,  215 
film  plays  228,  244,  249 
folk  lore  195-196,  199 
Freytag,  Die  Technik  des  Dramas, 

247-248 
Froissart  211 
Fromentin,  EugI:ne,  Une  annee 

dans  le  Sahel  176 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  210 
Gibbon  85 

Grady,  Henky  W.  152-153 
Gray  187 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler,  Nights 

with  Uncle  Remus  195 
Hartb,  Bret,  Ovicasts  of  Poker 

Flat  4,  206 
Hazlitt  91 
Hearn,  Lafcadio,  Kokoro  32,  53, 

54 


"Henry,  O."  220 

Herodotus  210-211 

history  4,  210-212 

history  plays  230,  232 

Homer  188,  194,  197,  198,  199, 

200 
Huxley,  T.  H.,  A  Piece  of  Chalk 

40-48 
hypothesis  131 

Idiom  79 
illusion  178-179 
illustration  54;  see  analogy, 
images  2,  3,  30,  31,  159-175,  211, 

221;  see  concrete 
imitation  163,  176,  205 
Imitation  of  Christ  3 
induction  116,  117,  121-127,  131 
inference  11,  12,  20,  24,  25,  98, 

113-114,     125-126,     145;     see 

analogy,  deduction,  induction 
information  9-36,  179 
interaction     188-190,     199,     204, 

220-227,  234-237 
interpretation  10,  11,  17,  18,  20, 

25,    26,    29,    33,    35,    37,    38, 

175-179,  208,    209,    211,    212, 

248;  see  inference 
interviews  35,  36,  282 
introduction  27,  40,  41,  42,  55, 

135-136,     156,     180-181,    189, 

222-223,  241-244 
Irving  91,  203 
issues  96 
iteration   29,    30,    50-52,    64-67, 

133,  139 

Jeffrey  91 

journaUsm  4,  11, 15, 16, 35,  36,  37, 
156,  202,  265,  275 


296 


INDEX 


Kenton,  Charles,  Kindling  245 

La  Fontaine  195,  196 

Lamb  86,  90 

LemaItre,  Jules  183 

Le  Sage  202 

Lessing,  Laokoon  188 

letters  165-167,  203,  279 

libraries  13-15 

Lincoln,  Springfield  Speech  75-76, 
129;  Debate  with  Douglas  at 
Galeshurg  108-112,  152;  Gettys- 
burg Speech  148 

literary  forms  4,  86;  see  drama, 
lyric,  novel,  etc. 

logic  22-24,  116-131;  see  argu- 
ment 

Lowell  86,  90 

lyric  162,  178,  233 

Macaulay  73,  75,  86,  87,  91 
magazine  articles  15,  16,  37,  156 
Maldon,  The  Battle  of  168 
Marlowe  245 
melodrama  200-201,  228 
Meredith,  George  183 
Mill's  Canons  122-125 
Milton  199 

miracle  plays  229,  231-232 
MiRABEAu,  Octave,  Les  affaires 

sont  les  affaires  245 
Moody,  William  Vaughan,  The 

Great  Divide  251 
movement  2,  179-257 
MuiR,   John,    The  Mountains  of 

California  31,  32 

Narration   3,    4,    160,    164,    188, 

193-227,  228,  277 
Newman  48,  49,  92,  114r-116,  125 


newspapers    4,    35-37,    82,    133, 

156,  202,  268,  275 
notes  17-21,  26,  139,  261 
noHment  218-220,  248 
novel  179,  201-205,  208,  212,  224 

Observation  161-163 

occasional  speeches  132,  147-155 

opera  228 

opinion  of  court  155 

oral  composition  29,  56,  59,  79-80, 

133-155,  193,  195,  261 
order  2,  17,  20,  26-29,  38-55,  87, 

91-92,  133,  147,  149,  213,  261; 

see  coherence,  movement 

Pageantry  228,  234,  249 

painting  177,  183,  188,  192 

pantomime  228,  249 

paragraphs  26-29,  38-55,  62-67, 
69-71,  87,  91,  134-135,  160, 
213,  221,  239,  281;  —  develop- 
ment 53-55 ;  —  unity  39,  44, 
53;  —  emphasis  30,  50-52, 
55,  58,  138,  150,  156,  213,  239, 
281 

paraphrase  19,  20 

Pater  187 

periodic  sentence  73-76 

peroration  135-136 

persuasion  93-156 

Phillips,  Wendell  95 

picaresque  202 

pictures  34 

PiNCHOT,  GiFFORD,  Primer  of 
Forestry  27-28 

Plato  212 

pleadings  96 

plot  132,  199,  201-209,  213-227, 
234^249,  277 


INDEX 


297 


Plutarch  212 

PoE,  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher 

206,  218 
poetic  3,   160,  212,  and  Part  II 

entire 
precision  83-84,  150-151 
predicates,  descriptive  182-186 
presumption  119,  126,  128 
proof,  see  argument;  —  degrees  of 

120-121,  126,  128-132 
proof-reading  285 
prospectus  9 
punctuation  285 

Quotation  19 

Realism  196 

rebuttal  106,  135,  143-146 

redundancy  61,  62,  71,  180-181, 

250 
reference,  books  of  14 
reference,  words  of  44-49,  64-67, 

70,280 
refutation,  see  rebuttal  > 

repetition  61 ;  see  iteration 
reports  9,  33-35 
representation  228-237 
research  11-25,  96-99 
reviews  35,  36 
revision,  56-85,  150-154 
rhythm    186-188,    250-257;     see 

cadence 
Richardson  203-205,  214 
Roland  197 
romance  196,  197,  199-201,  208, 

233 

Sagas  194,  197,  221 
St.  Francis  95,  196 
salience  30,  50-52,  55,  59-76,  195, 


199,  201,  204,  206,  207,  214, 
239,  280 

scenery  233-234 

scenes  178-179,  204,  205,  207, 
208,  210-211,  213-217,  219, 
237-249 

Scott  8 

sensation,  see  concrete,  images 

sentences  56-76;  —  unity  and  co- 
herence 57-58;  —  emphasis  59- 
76;  —  complex  57-58,  —  com- 
pound 57-58,  length  69-71;  — 
variety  70,  150;  —  in  descrip- 
tion 182-188;  — in  drama  254 

sermons  132,  148 

Shakspere  160,  162;  Julius 
CoBsar  94,  252,  255,  258; 
Othello  236,  237,  240-241,  242, 
245,  252,  253;  Romeo  and  Juliet 
237-238,  250;  Macbeth  242, 
248,  252,  253;  Merchant  of 
Venice  250,  256;  Lear  252,  253 

Sheridan,  The  School  for  Scandal 
236,  242,  254,  255 

Shorthouse,  J.  H.,  John  Ingle- 
sant  173-175 

short  story  178,  205-209 

slang  78-80 

Smollett  202,  214 

solution  218-220 

Sophocles  231;  (Edipus  Rex 
235,  238,  240 

speaking,  and  writing  29,  56,  57, 
59,  79-80,  87,  137-138,  156, 
232,  261;   see  oral  composition 

specific  30,  53 

statement  of  facts  113-114,  135, 
211 

status  97 

Steele  90,  203 


298 


INDEX 


Sterne,      Sentimental      Journey 

172-173,  204 
Stevenson,  R.  L.,  Father  Damien 

156;     The    Wrecker    169;     The 

Beach  of  Falesd  185,  225-227; 

The  Master  of  Ballantrae  187; 

The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door  206 
Story  3,  4,  160,  164,  188,  193-227, 

228,  277 
Sturlungasaga  194 
style  2,  94,  149,  249-257,  281 
subordination,  in  sentences  58,  71 

184 
Sudermann,      H.,      Die      feme 

prinzessin  242-244 
suggestion  159-160,  164,  181,  220, 

221,  228 
supplement  articles  35,  36,   156, 

268 
surprise  220,  239-240 
suspense  214,  21&-217,  239-240, 

241 
Swift  90,  154-155 
syllogism  119-121,  131 
synonyms  83,  84 


Tennyson,  Idylls  of  the  King  187 
testimony  11,  13,  16,  98-99 
Thackeray,  Letteis  167;    Henry 

Esmond  213-214 
Thucydides  211 
Tombeor  de  Notre  Dame  196 
tragedy  228,  231,  236-242,  245, 

248 
transitions  44r-50,   133,   179-186, 

221-222,  224-225,  238 

Unity  38,  39,  53,  175-179;  — in 
a  paragraph  39,  44,  53;  —  in  a 
sentence  57,  58;  —  in  argu- 
ment 95-96;  —  in  story  178, 
199,  205-208,  214,  222-223; 
—  in  drama  244-247 

usage  77-83,  184 

Variety  70,  150 
Vergil  199 
verification  13,  16 
Villani  211 

vocabulary  1,  2,  84;  see  diction, 
words 


Tabs,  John  B.,  Sap  162 

tale  194r-196,  201,  206 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  Holy  Dying  169 


Webster,  Daniel  95,  148 
words  1,  2,  30-32,  53,  76-85,  94, 
139,  141,  182,  228.  239.  249-257 


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